Prizes
by kayak Lady's Spouse
Summary: A longish tale whereby Jess makes an unexpected acquisition due to a poker tournament...and the fallout that results, a romance for Slim and a Mayoral election.
1. Chapter 1

Prizes

By Kayak Lady's Spouse

'Prizes' is a three part story, of which only part 1 stands alone. For ease of reading I have uploaded the parts separately

Part 1- Winner Takes All- Where an unplanned acquisition, by Jess, leads to civil disorder during the Laramie Mayoral election campaign and an excursion to Cheyenne turns violent.

Part 2 – Diddling around- A romance for Slim, and the continued Mayoral election, are impacted by an odd, but curvy, local artist and a traveling encyclopedia salesman.

Part 3 – See How they Run – Slim's innocuous trip to Cheyenne takes an unexpected turn when, unbeknownst to him, news of the railroad coming to town reaches Laramie and he is run for mayor against his girlfriend's brother.

Part 1 – Winner Takes All

 **Chapter 1**

The air was gray with cigar smoke while the hushed voices of many men, plus a few tired working girls, were accompanied by the tinny tones of an exhausted piano. Mathias Hicks checked his watch, "Two minutes to 6:00 a.m. This will be the last hand of the tournament." The authoritarian announcement was greeted by a new wave of murmurs, the nodding of many drunken heads, and a quiet "Hallelujah," from the piano player who was utterly dead on his seat.

Normally Laramie's "Arcade Saloon" closed around midnight, but once a year they hosted the "Laramie Seven Card Stud Fest." This was a 24 hour table stakes poker tournament running from six to six. This year's game started with twenty two players. At midnight the eight biggest winners were consolidated to one table while the other survivors cashed out. Only three players remained. Most of the eliminated players joined the audience who had steadfastly watched, smoked, drank, and held commerce with the working girls.

As he had all night, Mathias shuffled and dealt theatrically, intoning each pull with a practiced poker patter in his rich baritone voice. He liked to think of himself as a "Poker Poet" although the bar owner was equally adept at hog calling.

"Two in the pocket for all," six cards were sent out face down. He continued, "Now one up each. First up, Ed, gets the bedpost Queen (Queen of Spades)." Ed Bradford, Laramie's easy going, near sighted, and middle aged telegraph operator, had surprised everybody by entering this year's tournament. He then proceeded to shock everybody, by not only surviving the midnight cut but lasting all the way into the final hand. He even had a little more money than when he started. Ed squinted at his hole cards, a seven of diamonds, and a three of clubs. Not good.

"Harper gets himself the Deuce (two) of Diamonds. Mighty impressive there, Jess," Mathias good naturedly mocked.

"Better than no card at all Matt, I think." The handsome cowboy replied dubiously as he blankly checked his hole cards. Jess had rampaged through the tournament. He was by far and away the leader and, unless something wildly unexpected happened, would win handily.

"Ruthless Redding gets the Sex (Six) of Hearts." Rufus 'Ruthless' Redding was a freighter, merchant, and a professional card sharp who always timed a Laramie visit for the tournament. This year he had barely made it, arriving in the dark just before dawn and only by double timing it in straight from the livery stable to the card table. Rufus lived up to his moniker; a façade of geniality hid the fact that he was cold blooded, calculating and sadistic. This night his luck had been fair, but not a match for Harper's. With a face as blank as the moon he checked his hole cards, finding the seven and king of hearts.

"Queen is high. Your bet Ed," intoned Mathias in his role of High Priest of the Deal.

"$2.00, I'm not proud," Ed stated tossing in the bare minimum opening bet for the final rounds.

A snicker rippled through the peanut gallery as the others called.

Two more rounds of face up cards were dealt, interspersed with conservative bets. Mathias then dealt each the fourth up card. "Ed gets the Curse of Scotland (nine of hearts) to go with his queen, jack, five and four. Hey Ed, you finally have two cards of the same suit," he quipped.

"Shoot Matt, as all over the map as my cards have been this hand, I'm surprised it isn't purple with a donkey on it," the telegrapher joked as he looked over his cards. Quiet laughter erupted from the audience. "I fold. My hand is on a fast road to nowhere. I am done for the evening, and I want a beer," Ed cheerfully announced dumping his water glass into a handy spittoon. He had drunk nothing else during the tournament.

"Bye Ed, and well played. Join us again next year," Hicks genially bid his departing player goodbye. They shook hands to the sound of scattered applause, and then he continued with his two survivors, "Harper acquires the Trey (three) of diamonds to go with his two, and six of diamonds and two of clubs. A weak pair of twos but a possible baby straight flush in the making," Mathias intoned then he turned to Redding.

"Oh, bad news for Harper as the diamond Pedro (five of diamonds) visits Ruthless giving him a pair of snakes (pair of fives) and killing Harper's baby straight flush hopes. Redding still has a possible heart flush as he's still showing the ace, five and six of hearts. Ruthless, it's is your bet."

Ruthless Redding smiled blankly and genially announced, "I'm right proud of those fives, but I seem to be down to my last hundred and fifty dollars, which I wager, but I'd like to buy some more chips."

Jess sourly looked at his opponent, but kept his peace.

"Redding," Mathias raised a finger and replied firmly, "This is a table stakes tournament. I cannot allow your purchase." Tournament rules disallowed bringing in additional chips to the table, after the start, just as they disallowed 'buying hands' by betting too high for other players to call with the chips on hand.

"How about I buy'em from Harper or Bradford? Those chips are already on the table," the man suggested with a blank smile.

A murmur rose from the crowd and Mathias sucked in a startled breath. Then he drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table for a moment. This question had never come up before. He looked over at Jess questioningly. "Jess, it's up to you," then turning back to Redding, "If Jess is willing you can buy from him but you can't buy from Bradford. He has left the tournament and so have his chips."

"I wouldn't sell Redding horse apples, much less poker chips," Ed chimed in after coming up for air from his beer. That comment earned snickers from the room and an unfriendly look from Redding.

Redding then turned to Jess and genially challenged, "Harper, you got enough gumption to sell me some chips?"

Jess looked thoughtful, "Sure, I'll sell you up to $300." This drew a gasp from the audience. It was obvious that Jess either had another deuce or diamonds in his hole. However, unless he was bluffing, Redding had a flush with Ace high. This not only made three of a kind a dead hand, but it was also a very hard hand to beat with another flush.

"That's right kind of you Harper," Redding smiled pulling out a pen and a piece of paper. With a flourish he quickly scribbled upon it and handed it towards Jess, "There's my IOU."

Jess shook his head in disdain, firmly saying, "Your IOU is no good with me, Redding."

Anger briefly showed in Redding's face. He turned to the tensely expectant audience, "Who will be a gentleman and cover me? My word is good."

The gambler was met with a wall of silence. As the silence lengthened, Redding flushed and muttered something that, if heard, would have reduced his life expectancy. With a snort of contempt for the audience, he turned back to Jess and grated out, "Alright, curse you Harper, I'll put my wagon and cargo up for chips. But that is $4000 worth of stuff."

Jess smiled coldly, "Ruthless, first I'm not overly inclined to help you. Second, I neither need nor want $800 worth of trade junk."

"What do you mean $800?" the trader asked with an offended scowl.

"I figure dividing whatever value you claim by five is about right, considering what an underhanded scoundrel you are," Jess snorted with scorn.

Redding's jaw clenched at the insult, but he kept his peace as Jess continued, "But I'll go as high as $600, for Charlie Doornan's sake."

A murmur of curiosity stirred about the room and a look of incomprehension showed around Redding's eyes. "Who the devil is that?" he asked without thinking.

"You took his farm, near Abilene, about six years back. Then you showed what a rotten winner you are. Now I want to show that you're just as rotten a loser, "Jess explained hard eyed.

"I want a thousand," Redding growled.

"Yeah, and I want Jeff Davis to be president. It's not happening," Jess quipped then said with finality, "$600, take it or leave it."

Ruthless Redding cursed, "I'll take it but when I win the hand I can give you the $600 back for my stuff."

"Of course, but when I win it's all mine." Jess laughed, but the laughter had a very hard tone. He added, "Though heaven only knows what I'll do with $800 worth of snake oil, bloomers, and axe heads." None present had previously suspected how much the generally gregarious cowhand despised the itinerant merchant. Jess counted out $600 worth of his previous winnings. Then he pushed them towards his opponent, giving the impression of not wanting to touch Redding for fear of infection.

Ruthless hesitated for the barest of moments. "Why would Harper be willing to sell chips only showing a pair of twos? He undoubtedly has the flush with an ace. Hah! I have the heart ace and king!" Redding growled, "All in," and he knocked the newly purchased chip pile into the center of the table. Jess silently matched the bet.

With one of the last two players calling, "all in," Mathias did his duty. "All right then, the last card is down," called the dealer," and with all in called the betting is complete." Virtually the entire audience sat forward upon their chairs; high expectation charging the room. The two poker players looked at the new additions to their hands and, by their indifference, it was obvious that neither addition mattered.

"You're a fool Harper! Read'em and weep. Ace high flush. All of those lovely, lovely, hearts," Redding gloated while reaching for the pot.

Jess simply flipped his three hole cards: two of spades, two of hearts, and king of Spades. "Four ducks in a row (four twos) and the pot and tournament is Harper's. Congratulations Jess," called the dealer in a closing baritone benediction. Jess simply smiled while announcing "Drinks for the house." It was a tournament tradition that the winner always stood the house a round of drinks at the end.

Ruthless Redding went pale and started to reach for a concealed gun. He then thought the better of it, because that was Jess Harper across the table. Instead he swore loudly while stomping out of the saloon to the accompaniment of jeering. The poor loser had few admirers present.

The irate gambler continued stomping across Laramie and over to the livery stable where formerly his, now Jess', wagon was. Like a middle aged cougar on the stalk, Laramie's sheriff moved quietly along in his wake. Mort Corey figured he'd collect his drink later as it was even odds Redding was up to something.

Like many, Mort had a low opinion of Redding. Unlike most, he also knew the story of Charlie Doornan. Doornan was a not-overly-bright sod buster who got into a poker game with Redding. The dimwitted farmer lost steadily and then tried to recoup in one hand; wagering his farm. Redding won. If that had been the end of the tale nobody, but Doornan, would have cared. In poker, the adage went; "Never bet what you can't afford to lose." Unfortunately, when Doornan tried to get his farm back, Redding humiliated him over and over again. Eventually, unable to face his family, the half-witted man hung himself. News of the hanging caused Redding to rock with laughter as he pointed out that he had sold the farmer the rope the previous day.

Mort paused outside of the livery stable to allow Redding time to get into the middle of whatever mischief he was planning. While the sheriff waited, he considered his town and enjoyed the clean pre-dawn air. In the near darkness Mort saw the silhouettes of banners festooning the street. He didn't need light to know what they read; it was mayoral election time in Laramie and each one either touted Mayor Diddler (the fat, greasy, glad handing, incumbent) or his opponent Arena Linkous (a religious prig, who was also the minister's wife). Against any reasonable sort, Mrs. Linkous wouldn't stand a chance but Diddler was special. Sadly, it looked to be a choice between corrupt foolishness and narrow religious fanaticism. Mort was heartily tired of the whole noisy event.

"Well, Ruthless should be well into whatever he is doing. Whatever it is, he'll have a hard time denying it before the judge," Mort thought as he entered the livery. He found Redding hitching horses to Jess' new wagon. Ten minutes later, Redding was in the town jail. After locking the gambler up, Mort went back outside chuckling to himself, "Boy howdy, is Jess in for a shock when he finds out just what kind of wagon he won. "

Jess savored his victory, while accepting congratulations, counting his winnings, drinking a beer, and turning down a couple of suggestions from two bouncy working girls that they go upstairs and celebrate. When his tally ended, Jess came out $3424 ahead, plus whatever Redding's wagon and cargo were worth. "It's been a long time since I've had this much money," he thought happily. Then mentally corrected, "Come to think of it, I've never had this much cash money at once." As an added bonus, the tournament prize was a free beer, each day, for a year. The last was not to be sneered at as he was right fond of beer.

Beer in hand, the owner of the general store was amongst Jess' well wishers. "Lady Luck was your friend last night. Congratulations," Jock Benson said, saluting him with his beer and only avoided slopping foam on himself by taking a quick slurp.

Jess grinned and laughed, "Thanks, Jock. She surely was. I was surprised Redding agreed to buy those last chips from me. He should have known I was laying for him when I agreed to sell them." Jess replied, and then added, "Finishing up by skinning Ruthless only makes everything sweeter."

"I can't say as I feel any different. Speaking of your polecat skinning, what are you going to do with his goods? I might be interested in some, at a good price." Jock obviously had his horse trading hat on and was trying to catch Jess while he was feeling good, high from winning and drinking.

What Jock didn't realize was that this was only Jess' second beer of the night. The cowhand had limited himself due to the strength of the competition. The men who hadn't, including Judge Klink, had been out at midnight. "Let me finish up here, then let's go take a look. We can probably use some of the stuff at the ranch," the Texan answered with a nod.

Jock snickered, "I doubt your partner will fit into any of Ruthless' bloomers."

Jess burst into laughter, narrowly avoiding sending a jet of beer through his nose, at the vision of his pard riding the range in pink bloomers. He barely chortled out, "Probably not, though Miss Daisy might." Turning a little more serious, "It's hard to guess what is in that wagon. Redding would haul anything for profit. Shoot, for all I know it could be full of Chinese prostitutes."

"Ahh soo, Mr. Harper. You finish here and we checkee your wagon. Chop chop," Jock joked, while squinting his eyes, clapping his hands together, and then bowing quickly three times.

Jess laughed again, and then stopped with a horrified expression. "You don't really think he might BE carrying Chinese prostitutes do you?" Such unfortunate girls were hauled in cages and were generally dead by age 25.

Jock stifled a snicker and said with mock gravity, "Well Jess, he isn't now, although you might be. Course you could take'em all, move to Salt Lake, and make honest women of 'em. I hear Mort has a friend there who could perform the multiple nuptials for ya."

"That's not funny, Jock," Jess growled, then he hurriedly finished his beer. The Texan knew that the odds of Redding carrying cribs of Chinese prostitutes were low, but he was so horrified at the possibility, that he hustled the laughing Jock over to the livery stable to reassure himself.

Jock got to the side door first and opened it, bowing low while saying, "Honorable Mr. Harper, come in, come in."

Jess rushed in wordlessly. It was dark in the livery as the sun was just peeping over the horizon. There was only one wagon, and no Celestial ladies, present. Jess let out a relieved sigh and then laughed at his own foolishness. Jock just laughed.

"No caged women thank goodness, but that wagon looks odd," Jess remarked with a relieved smile.

"It surely does. I'll open the front door so we'll have some light," Jock's tone turned curious, "Is that a bell on the front?" Jock asked moving towards the liverys' front doors.

"Yeah, it is. Why on earth would Ruthless have a bell mounted on the front of his …..holy cats!" Jess exclaimed letting out a whoop of excitement. As Jock swung open the doors, the increasing light slowly revealed a Model 1874 Silsby fire engine, gleaming black, red, and golden in all of its glorious beauty. Jock and Jess swarmed the gleaming wagon chattering like excited 10 year olds. Three hours later, they were still at it, having strewn hoses all over the livery. That was when Jock's sister Marcy stormed in, grabbed him by the ear, and drug him off to work in their store.

 **Chapter 2**

It was noon when Jess got back to the Sherman ranch, grinning from ear to ear and still too pumped up to be tired. Slim was busy cutting firewood and grinned at him as he rode into the corral. By Jess' expression he could tell it had been a good tournament.

"Hey Pard," the big rancher called while resting the axe upon his shoulder, "You must have done well. I see you made it past the midnight cut this year." The pair had agreed ahead of time that Jess would take today off.

"Yup," Jess answered as he dismounted. "I won," he said with a grin. "Redding was so mad that he almost pulled on me after the last hand." Jess laughed, although the last really wasn't a laughing matter.

Slim shook his head, "That's not funny Jess. Though if he only 'almost pulled' I guess it's ok."

Jess shook his head and answered with a smile, "It isn't a problem Slim. It was just a poker mad. It's not like he's going to come after me. Redding is just a bad loser, and he really lost his rear end in that last hand. Ed came in second."

"Ed? As in Ed Bradford? I didn't know Ed even played poker, Slim exclaimed. "I guess Mattie restrains him. Was he good or lucky?" Slim asked curiously.

"Some of both." Jess changed the subject asking, "Is lunch ready?" He started towards the house adding, "The food at the Arcade stinks and my stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

Miss Daisy, the ranch house keeper, chose that moment to stick her head out the door and called both men in to eat. The table talk was all about the tournament. After lunch, Jess happily pulled out his winnings and announced that they were to be used around the ranch. He was a partner now, and by gum, he wanted to pay some of his share. The friendly argument that followed lasted all afternoon, as the pair re-shingled the barn. In their excitement both men forgot that Jess was supposed to take the day off. At no point did Jess mention the fire engine. That was a surprise he was saving for tomorrow.

While Jess was having a grand time reporting his triumph, Redding was having a lot less fun being arraigned before a judge. The right honorable judge Klink was annoyed, hung over, and none too pleased to see Redding in front of him. If it hadn't been for Redding he could have slept off his hangover. Klink had been sure to finish all of his other Laramie legal business the day before the tournament.

Only Sheriff Corey, Redding, the judge, and the court reporter were present. Mort had just finished reading the charges. Klink now spoke gravely and grumpily, "Mr. Redding, understand that unless you have some pretty persuasive evidence, you will be found guilty of theft. The trial will occur in two months when I come back through here. Alternatively, you can plead guilty now and save everybody, including you, some trouble. What have you to say?"

Rufus Redding thought fast. A jury trial here, where the town already despised him, would find him guilty of anything the sheriff accused him of; up to and including the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and the secret theft of the British Crown Jewels. A judge trial, since Klink was well known for making up his mind quickly and not changing it, would end the same way. His best bet for leniency was to plead guilty. Looking at the surly judge, that option was about as happy a prospect as going all in on a pair of sevens. Still, there were worse hands than a pair of sevens.

"Your honor, I'll plead guilty, if you let me speak my piece," the gambler said, making his move.

"Speak away then, sir," the judge said sourly.

Rufus Redding spoke his best, claiming that the sheriff had it in for him. While he admitted to taking the wagon, he was drunk at the time (not true), angry (very true), not thinking well (absolutely true), and that he had been provoked by Harper's insults. He kept his speech to a short five minutes, crossed his fingers, and hoped for the best. At worst, he'd be spending the next five years in prison.

Judge Klink wasn't greatly moved but saw that no real harm had been done. Redding was trying to welch on a bet rather than robbing or threatening anybody. Of course Klink thought that welchers were just pestiferous vermin. It struck him that just getting rid of the pest would be for the best.

The judge gravely responded, "Very well Mr. Redding. Given your reasonableness and public apology, I sentence you to five years in the Wyoming territorial prison. The sentence will be suspended after you serve seven days, in the Laramie town jail, and pending your agreement to never again gamble within the borders of either Wyoming or Colorado. Violation of this agreement will result in your commencing your full five year term at the point of time you violate the agreement. You sir, are a welcher, and welchers have no place at the gaming tables of civilized men. Are you in agreement, sir?"

Redding nodded, ruminating that he could still haul freight, if he got a stake. Then a thought occurred to him, so he asked, "Colorado, your honor? I've done nothing there, and begging your pardon, you don't have jurisdiction there."

The judge surprised him with a half smile as he grimly answered, "No you haven't and I don't. But I do have a brother who's a judge there and I see no need to pester him with the verminous likes of you. Go gamble in the Nations! There you won't bother civilized men, for such will never game with savages. Case closed. Mort he's all yours." The judge gently tapped his gavel down, though the sound still hurt his throbbing head. Then he made his way back to the hotel where he slept off the worst of his hangover.

Lunch time at the Laramie jail brought Mort Corey's smiling, and very pregnant, wife in with a large basket. Mort bounced up, acting more like a twenty year old than a man nearer to 50, and bussed his happily blushing lady. Iwona always blushed quite easily.

Iwona Vasa Corey was a strapping 30 year old woman just over 6' tall. She was cheerful, dark eyed, lightly complected, raven haired, long of leg, pleasantly muscular, and very buxom even before the addition brought on by the baby. She'd have been a great beauty if she also hadn't sported a nose to make an eagle envious.

"Hello my dear, thanks for my lunch. I hadn't gotten around to making one," Mort smiled as he took the basket. Plates, cutlery, and cups he already had at the jail.

"Ist nothing dearest," she happily answered. "Martin bring milk and tell me you catch wagon thief so I know you not home for lunch." She smiled happily, "Made enough for two. Ist not kind make prisoner eat what you cook," she said then added, " Ist last of pronghorn though."

Mort knew what that meant. Raised by her gamekeeper grandfather, Iwona was a crack rifle shot and loved hunting. She would probably be skinning a fresh kill when he got home. "Have fun and good luck," he replied. Iwona nodded, smiling happily as she waddled out of the jail. Mort sighed; soon he would have to argue with her again about slowing down while pregnant. While generally a dutiful wife, Iwona could cheerfully turn a deaf ear to him when it suited her. That tactic made ensuing arguments both very one sided and ineffective.

"Redding, you're in luck. These are pronghorn perogies," he said serving them up. The prisoner also got some water. Both men ate them avidly and then Mort informed his prisoner, "Ok Ruthless, you now know what my wife's perogies taste like. You have a choice. I'll fix your meals: which will be water, beans, and a boiled potato or she will fix them. As you can see," Mort said patting his expanding midriff, "her cooking is good. Which do you want?"

"No contest Corey, hers." Redding said grumpily, knowing there would be more to this as it was a stupid question and Corey was far from stupid. "What's the catch?" he added.

"Well, my cooking is free, and you get what you pay for. Hers comes at a price," the sheriff replied with a friendly smile.

Redding sighed, he didn't have a lot of money left. His possessions amounted to two horses, his clothes and about $40. "How much?" he grumped while thinking to himself, "Being shook down stinks."

"Labor. You put in a good days work and not only will you be fed by Iwona, but I'll get you beer for both lunch and dinner."

"What sort of labor?" the prisoner asked cautiously.

"This jail needs paint. I think we can keep you busy all week," Mort smiled. He loved putting prisoners to useful work and painting was a pain. He had enough of it to do himself as Iwona was making him repaint the house.

"I want some old clothes so I don't ruin my own," Redding happily countered.

"Agreed."

"Done." Rufus Redding figured that it wasn't a bad deal. He had expected a shake down for a dollar or more a meal, like the stage lines did. Besides, those perogie things were quite good. "Sheriff, if you don't mind my saying, between those perogie things and her figure, I think you've married well."

Mort laughed good naturedly, "So do I."

Jock Benson was short on sleep, strung out on coffee, and happily gossiping to any and all who would listen about the new fire truck. What he wasn't doing was getting any work done. Marcy was so vexed that she took refuge in the backroom doing inventory, just to keep from throttling him.

By early afternoon, word had spread through most of Laramie about the engine and it's location. How and why it was there varied over the telling, and all reference to Jess was lost. By early evening, Mayor Diddler was capitalizing upon its' arrival by taking credit for it and announcing the formation of a Laramie fire department. He had the engine rolled out into the street and was signing up volunteers using the vehicle as a desk. The acquisition of the engine, and the fire department formation with himself as chief, was immediately heralded as his greatest achievement. His popularity soared. Overall, the event caused much excitement and celebration. The celebration included much beer drinking, the volunteers being rewarded by the local saloons, as the tavern owners were scared to death of the notion of the rabidly dry lady candidate becoming mayor.

Rufus Redding had been painting all afternoon, dutifully watched over by a bored deputy named Tyrus Cobb. Cobb had the duty as Mort Corey had fretted himself into a near conniption over his pregnant wife going out hunting alone. In the end he had decided to go as well. The pair were now camping above Falls Lake. Redding had heard Corey tell Cobb that they would be back in two days and to make sure that, if Redding worked, he got fed well. Someone named Lilly would be doing the cooking and Mort had already paid her for it. Well, dinner hadn't been pronghorn perogies, but Rufus figured he couldn't complain about steak and ale.

Painting the outside of the jail, which would continue for a while as the building really needed it, had allowed Redding to watch the revelry and election antics surrounding the fire engine. He had been mentally congratulating Harper on selling the engine until he heard Diddler talking to his drunken admirers. The mayor had bragged about how he had negotiated for, beat down the price of, and had the engine delivered all the way from Chicago 'for a song.' He would be donating it to the town after his re-election in two weeks, "When he was sure everything was as it should be with it."

Redding snorted in amusement. The fool hadn't noticed the boiler placard depicting firemen and reading "Silsby Manufacturing Co, Seneca, N.Y." A light dawned and the gambler considered how he might turn this to his advantage while keeping up a cheerful conversation with Cobb. Redding could be a merry companion, when it suited him, and the two were soon acting like old friends.

Diddler's supporters were not alone on the street. There were a few anti-Diddlers watching the election posturing with disgusted disdain. One was an exceptionally prim woman that Cobb happily identified as the mayoral opponent, Arena Linkous. "I need to talk to her away from Cobb," the gambler decided.

Cobb unwittingly gave him his chance. "Rufus, behave yourself and paint. I'm gonna join the fire department and get some beer," the deputy announced, then went on jokingly, "Don't you run off now."

The genial convict answered with a smile and a nod as he applied more paint to the window sill, "Not to worry Tyrus. I have a one week sentence and have no need to run off only to get stuck with five years. Got no place I need to be in that much of a hurry. Go get your beer."

"I'll bring one back for you," the deputy promised as he lumbered off.

Ten heart beats later, Rufus Redding was heading towards Arena Linkous. "Good afternoon ma'am," the man said feigning innocence and tentative shyness.

Arena Redding looked disdainfully at the shabbily dressed and paint splattered stranger. "Good afternoon to you, sir," she managed almost politely. "Shouldn't you be back painting your cell?"

"Well pleasantries just went out the door," the gambler thought but said instead, "Yes ma'am but I am moved to speak with you. I, ma'am, am Rufus Redding, a poor sinner from nowhere. Doubtless I shall return to the same. However, I was moved by the Lord to come here and _I need_ to tell you why," he spoke softly, desperately, and with eyes downcast.

The supremely self righteous pastor's wife looked at him curiously. He had her full attention.

All innocence, the man raised his face and looked her straight in the eye as he continued, "Last week, I was delivering that fire truck to an ore processing mill near Durango, Colorado. Sadly, the mines had busted and the Lord's own lightning had destroyed the mill so there was nobody there to take possession of it. That night I dreamed that a voice, the voice of the Lord Jesus himself, told me to go north to Laramie and to make my delivery there. For in Laramie there were good and needful folk who would come to harm without it. So here I came."

Arena eyed him suspiciously; he sounded an awful lot like a traveling snake oil salesman, but she let him continue, merely saying, "And?"

"So here I came, but to my shame I then fell prey to the evil of drink and now find myself in jail," he said in faux humiliation. Then pointing to Diddler he venomously added, "while that heathen steals God's gift to the town!" Rufus cast his eyes down and continued, "I am the Lord's poor servant! Without my weakness that beautiful fire engine would be here as a tribute to God's goodness and bounty. Instead, it will put that varmint back into office. I am so ashamed, but felt moved to confess my weakness to you," he finished, blubbering, and then lumbered back to his painting.

Arena Linkous had listened intently and was greatly surprised at his abrupt departure. She had expected a sales pitch of some sort, not a grieving confession unaccompanied by appeals for aid. That he asked for nothing lent strength to what he said. She saw that he had nothing to gain by lying and heaven knew the Lord worked in mysterious ways.

Rufus returned to his painting with a smile and with his crocodile tears abated. "Now I need to make contact with Diddler. If I work one side against the other, maybe I can salvage something from this. I might even be able to steal the engine back. At the least it will be entertaining," he thought with conniving optimism. It wasn't long before Cobb rejoined him, promised beer in hand, and the two toasted each other.

By 8 pm, after all of the painting gear had been cleaned and stowed, Rufus had convinced the soused deputy/firefighter to take him over to meet Mayor Diddler.

Rufus' luck held, as Diddler was alone when he and Cobb approached. "Good evening Mr. Mayor, I am Rufus Redding and I just wanted to congratulate you upon the acquisition of the fire engine," he cordially said upon his approach.

Richard Diddler smiled his politician's smile and thrust out a chubby hand to Redding, "Why thank you Mr. Redding. She is a beauty isn't she? You must be new in town."

He shook the politician's hand, "Why yes sir, she is mighty pretty, and I should know since I just brought her in from New York. I thought we might talk about that," he replied with a hard eyed smile.

Big Dick Diddler, his son was nicknamed Little Dick but both men were only called that behind their backs, froze in mid handshake. He finally stammered out, "Ssso you say."

"Why, yes I do." Thinking very quickly, Rufus discarded the notion of selling the wagon to the mayor; the men present when he had lost it had included Sheriff Corey and Judge Klink. Both knew that the fire truck now belonged to that cursed Harper. Redding was stuck in jail and when Corey returned the jig would be up. "I was just wondering if you know how to operate it. Mighty touchy things, steam powered fire engines. Ruining them is pretty easy and exploding them isn't much harder. Now, I was trained in how they work so that I could teach her ultimate owners."

"Owners who are expecting your imminent arrival," Mayor Diddler added downcast, unhappily envisioning a hundred grumpy outsiders absconding with his best campaign asset.

Ruthless shrugged, "Yes, but if I don't arrive they won't be overly put out. It was cash on delivery. Salt Lake City will simply send a few telegrams and get another fire engine sent out." He didn't mention that he had already bought the engine for $2200 so Silsby wouldn't be looking for it either.

The mayor smiled, "I sense a parley beginning," Diddler pompously announced.

"Most astute sir, that is why Laramie is fortunate in having you as mayor," Rufus answered nodding. The pair dickered with the deputy looking on. In the end, Redding was to be paid $500 to teach the Mayor, and a few of his flunkies, how to operate the engine. Then he would disappear, never returning to Laramie nor tell anyone what became of the fire engine. Rufus would get half the money now and half upon leaving town. Secretly, both men cheerfully started considering ways to double cross the other should the opportunity arise. As Cobb locked him up for the night, Rufus' thoughts next turned to Jess Harper. He needed a few words with that loathsome cowpoke.

 **Chapter 3**

"Wake up, Jess," the distant voice of Slim Sherman cheerfully called. Well, distant to Jess Harper's mind for it was wherever minds go when a man is sleeping face down in his half empty supper plate. A short night after a full day of wrangling, followed by a 24 hour poker tournament, and then shingling the barn all afternoon had taken a toll upon the weary man. Young Mike, Slim and Jess' fosterling, laughed heartily as Jess blearily looked up with mashed potatoes in his eyebrows.

Slim smiled as Miss Daisy handed Jess a napkin. "Land sakes, "she said as he ruefully wiped his face, "if you're that tired go to bed."

"Sounds like a good idea Miss Daisy. Night all." Jess mumbled as he pushed back his chair and staggered off to his bedroom.

"Take off your spurs this time!" Daisy admonished the retreating figure. Jess nodded to himself, and upon his arrival, kicked off his boots and flopped into the bed fully clothed; snoring immediately filled the room.

Hours later Jess awoke in the quiet darkness of the ranch house. He blearily sat up, stretched, and quietly snuck outside. Surprise was the key to his plans and waking Slim would have ruined them.

Jess saddled up Traveler, put leads on two of their draft horses, and was off to Laramie. It felt to be around midnight, and the full moon lit the landscape. The night air was pleasantly cool and full of the scent of pines. It was a wonderful night ride, leading the frisking ponies. Jess soon found himself at the back of the livery stable.

He opened the rear door, and led his animals into the building. Striking a light, he exclaimed "Dad gum it! Where's my wagon?" as the light showed that the fire engine was missing. He stomped around the stable until he walked out of the front doors, and spotted his missing property sitting out on the street. The mayor and his drunken volunteers had neglected to put it away. Relieved, he thought, "What the devil is it doing out here?" He shrugged, brought his three horses around and commenced hitching the draft animals up.

Tying Traveler to the back, he discovered that his fire engine reeked of beer and vomit. Annoyed and thoroughly disgusted, Jess re-entered the livery retrieving rags, a lantern, a bucket of water, and a mop. He then commenced cleaning his defiled beauty while cussing whatever drunk had moved his fire engine, and then puked on her.

An hour and a half later Jess was rolling down Main Street. As he rolled out of town, he noticed a light on at the general store. Curious, he stopped, dismounted, and looked through the glass in the door. Jock was at the counter doing something. He tapped on the glass so Jock looked up. His friend then waved him in.

"Hi Jess, whatya want?" Jock greeted him motioning towards the coffee pot. "Have some mud." Then he asked curiously, "What's that on your forehead?"

Jess ran his hand over his forehead and rubbed off the last mashed potato remnants. "I bumped my face," he said by way of explanation and moved towards the proffered coffee. It smelled good and Jess helped himself. "Ah, Marcy's coffee. She always puts cinnamon in it," he thought, then he answered Jock's question, "I was just picking up the fire engine. I figured that I'd drive it to the ranch and surprise Slim," Jess grinned. "What are you doing up so late?"

"Inventory. " Jock replied making a face. "I fell asleep this afternoon, and Marcy is mad at me. She stuck me doing the last half of the inventorying. Once I woke up from my nap I couldn't get back to sleep so I started in on it." Jess nodded in reply. Marcy was one of Laramie's prettiest ladies but she ran a strict business. It was an attitude that made Jock's life a bit harder for him than he would have liked. There was no doubt at all who ran this store, and it wasn't Jock.

Jess had a sudden idea, "Jock, would you mind telling old Jonas that I picked up my wagon? I forgot to tell him earlier today. Oh, and here is 75 cents for his housing it."

"Sure Jess, it's not a problem." Jock said nodding and pocketing the money.

"Do you have any brass polish in stock?"

"Three jars. I just counted them," Jock answered absent mindedly jerking a thumb towards the jars which sat to his left.

"I'll buy one if you throw in two rags. I want to polish up the brass on the engine," Jess offered as he reached out and picked up a jar.

Transaction completed, Jock pitched in with the polishing and soon the engine positively glowed. "Jess, mind if I come too?" Jock asked as they finished.

Jess looked at him in surprise, "No. You're welcome to come. Why?"

Jock laughed as he brushed an errant strand of hair away from his eyes, "I want to see Slim's face. I think it will be fun. Let me get my horse."

A few minutes later, leading two horses and with the two men chattering like magpies, the fire engine headed out of Laramie. Later that morning, Marcy arrived at the store to find the doors unlocked, a lantern burning, the inventory incomplete, and no sign of Jock. While finishing the inventory she considered how best to greet her brother whenever he deigned to reappear. She was favoring dipping him in kerosene and setting him on fire over her second choice of putting him on a spit and slow roasting him. "Brothers!" she repeatedly grumbled.

The moon had set so the return to the Sherman ranch was a bit slower than the ride out. That bothered neither Jess nor Jock. They chattered in high expectation of the reactions they would get from Slim and company. Dawn was breaking when they pulled up in front of the ranch house.

"Whoa!" Jess called out and then, "Wake'em up Jock!"

Jock wildly rang the bell, making a rumpus fit to raise the dead. Mike came pelting out of the hen house. More sedately, Miss Daisy came around from the kitchen and called, "Land sakes Jess Harper! What is all this commotion for on a Sunday morning? What is that THING?" Slim was the last to appear, as he had been taking care of private business in the necessary.

"Partner, what the devil have you got there? Is that a fire engine?" Slim called, grinning in excitement. In a flash, he was on the wagon and looking it over in nearly as much excitement as Jess had the morning before. "Oh, hi Jock," he eventually added.

Jess grinned ear to ear, "Yup, it's OUR fire engine! Courtesy of Rufus Redding, and 'four ducks in a row' at the poker tournament!"

"Neat!" Mike exclaimed clambering aboard and replacing Jock at the bell.

"Stop that Mike! A body can't hear themselves think!" Miss Daisy commanded, raising her hands to her ears. Then turning to her dark haired employer, "Jess Harper, what in the name of common sense are you going to do with a fire engine?"

Mike dutifully quit ringing the bell and climbed onto the back of the rig. "I don't rightly know, Miss Daisy," Jess admitted with a grin and a shrug. The admission didn't seem to bother him much.

"We'll figure out something," Slim called out in his partner's defense, and with an idiot grin, rang the bell. "You won this in the tournament? That was supposed to be table stakes. How did you manage to win this?" He shouted over his own rumpus. Miss Daisy shook her head, re-covered her ears and retreated indoors to fix breakfast.

"Redding used the fire engine as collateral to buy more chips from Jess," Jock answered. The rancher gave Jock an odd look, and then Jess explained how the poker tournament had ended. Slim let out a whistle and grinned. "No wonder he was mad. These things are right expensive."

The four boys, for in the presence of the gleaming fire truck the three men had more or less reverted to adolescents, clambered all over the fire engine opening and closing everything that would open and close, turned valves, unrolled hose lines, and generally had a grand old time. It was Slim who found the bill of sale from Silsby Manufacturing of Seneca, NY to one Rufus Redding for $2200. He let out another whistle when he saw the figure, and showed the receipt to Jess. "That's one expensive toy you have there."

"Yeah, I guess she is," he grinned again, "So what? She's ours, all bought and paid for."

A still smiling Slim turned a thoughtful look upon their four wheeled idol, "Jess, do you have any idea how to operate her?"

"Nope, I've never worked with steam boilers," the Texan happily admitted.

"I haven't either," added Jock who hadn't been asked.

"Nor I," agreed Slim with a thoughtful expression. Then he continued, "I do know that they can explode and kill everyone around them. We need some help. It's no use having a fire engine you can't use."

"Speak for yourself. Even if I never figured her out, I would love to keep her," Jess spouted in opposition. Then he paused before adding, "Course, actually being able to use her would be even better. Any thoughts?"

"Cheyenne?" Jock opined.

"My thought too, "Slim said nodding. "They've got a railroad depot with a maintenance yard. We can find somebody there who can teach us about boilers. We'll probably have to teach ourselves about pumps, but I don't think they explode," he added with a wry smile.

"Then I'm off to Cheyenne!" Jess announced, immediately bouncing onto the wagon bench and eager to get the rig on the road.

"Jess Harper! Get off that fire engine this instant, and come eat your breakfast," Miss Daisy re-appeared just as Jess had made his announcement. "Your contraption will still be there after you finish eating," she chided him just as she would have Mike.

Jess flushed, and climbed down. "Yeah, I guess it can wait until after breakfast. It would probably be a good idea to change out the horses too. This pair has been up half of the night," Jess answered with a hint of returning good sense.

Slim smiled, then added with a wry expression, "I can't come along. As much as I would love to go, one of us has to stay here at the ranch. It's your baby, you go have fun." The blonde rancher cheerfully added, "When you get back, you can teach me how to run her, too."

Jock smacked Jess on the shoulder with enthusiasm, "I'll go with you Jess! Two are better than one on the road. We shouldn't be gone more than two or three days." Jock Benson previously had a few crushes on various Laramie girls, but he had never fallen as hard for any of them as hard as he had for Jess' fire engine.

Jess smiled, "Sure Jock, let's eat, then off we go to Cheyenne."

Jock turned to Slim and asked, "Slim, can if I borrow a blanket and a few odds and ends for the trip? I'd rather not have to delay Jess by heading back to town for my stuff."

Slim threw his head back and roared with laughter, "You mean you'd rather not head back into town where Marcy can wring your neck. Sure. Since I have to head into town anyway, I'll tell her where you're off to so she won't worry. That way she'll only kill you once, when you get back, rather than three or four times."

Jock flushed, ducked his head to avoid eye contact, and laughed, "That'll be great. Thanks." Suddenly Jock cocked an eye at the rancher and asked, "Hey, is it true that Lilly Spencer dumped you?"

Slim was startled and slightly embarrassed by the unexpected question, "Yes, at Mort and Iwona's wedding reception. I was 'getting too serious' and she wanted to 'just be friends'. Why?" he asked with a sour, wrinkle nosed expression.

Jock gave Slim an overly innocent look and answered, "That's what I heard. So has Marcy," then he added "I hear that another town dance is set for next Saturday, and I know that Marcy would like to go."

Slim smiled and nodded. He had always had a sweet spot for Marcy Benson. Maybe now would be a good time to test the waters, "You aren't suggesting this to distract Marcy from your truancy, are you?"

"Of course I am," Jock said hopefully. "If you distract her enough maybe she'll forget I'm gone." Slim just shook his head.

 **Chapter 4**

Sunday mornings in Laramie are usually quiet, and this one was no exception. Ed Bradford was dressed in his best, and awaited his wife Mattie, in the front room of their home. It was a brief wait. Hand in hand, the long married middle aged couple walked to church. At a glance they were an unassuming pair. He was the quiet, middle aged, slightly built, bespectacled, and graying telegraph operator. She was his shorter, heavy, and greatly bosomy wife of equal years. In fact, she was a benevolent and major player in Laramie's female social order.

Ed always had to suppress a snicker when he walked past the church sign, which read 'First Raptured Baptist Church of Laramie- The reverend Lawrence Linkous, pastor.' Some enterprising soul, generally assumed to be a local youth, was forever altering the sign in the middle of the night. Reverend Larry always took it in good humor, but the morning following such an alteration always featured the pastor's wife having a fit in the middle of the street. Arena Linkous would then rampage around trying to identify the culprit. Ed knew who the perpetrator was and had silently vowed to take the secret to his grave.

"Well hon, I see we are still members of the First Raptured Baptist Church this morning. Not the First Ruptured, Last Captured, First Raptured Dentist, or First Raptored Baptist Churches. I really liked that last because it let me imagine Arena being carried off by an enormous hawk," Ed whispered into Mattie's ear before giving it a quick nibble.

"Ed Bradford, behave yourself!" She chided while repressing her own giggle and ducking her head away (but not releasing his hand; God alone knew where that might get to if she turned it loose when Ed was in this sort of mood). Mattie, though publically disdaining the sign prankster, nevertheless secretly hoped to find an altered sign there every Sunday. Unlike Arena, Mattie's deity had a lively sense of humor. She figured he had to since he was willing to accept the likes of herself into his good graces.

The reverend and his wife greeted them at the door of the church; Arena Linkous giving Ed a disapproving look for such licentious behavior. Pastor Larry was equally disapproving, until his wife was distracted by other approaching sinners, whereupon he gave Ed a quick wink. Ed and Mattie both felt sorry for the reverend. He was far too kind to deserve Arena for a spouse. Then again, they would have felt the same if she had been married to Bloody Bill Anderson.

The service was packed (they badly needed a larger building), energetic, and loud with the congregation absorbed in the sermon. It was titled "God's bounty for the faithful" and was a political speech aimed at bolstering Arena's campaign for Mayor. Ed despised the church's political involvement and the current political diatribe left him seething. He silently summed up the sermon, "According to Holy Writ, the local manifestation of a fire engine is a safe guarding gift from God to the faithful of Laramie and it has nothing to do with Mayor Diddler. Being from God, it is now belongs to the faithful. Finally, the sermon thundered out a call for the faithful to form their own Godly Inspired Volunteer Fire Department so that God's gift could be properly used, appreciated, and left unsullied by the devices of the drunken pagan followers of Richard Diddler. Hallelujah."

Mattie felt Ed losing patience, and ushered him out of the church as quickly as the close of services allowed. Assuming an alien look of vapid stupidity, he quietly protested saying, "But honey, I want to join the saintly new fire department."

His wife peered at him intently, "That's what I'm afraid of. Why?" she asked. Mattie knew Ed was rarely a joiner and never without reason.

Ed's vapid and beatific posture was belied by the anger of his locked jaw. "Why to further God's will of course. I think we should be named 'The First Holy Hoser Company," he responded with faux brainlessness.

Mattie reinforced her grip upon her husband's arm, "Home Ed Bradford, now! You need to simmer down." Ed allowed her to walk him home. He loved her terribly, only attended to make her happy, and that love was all that had kept him from raising an unholy furor for several years. Mattie loved God and knew the Lord Jesus as her personal savior. So did Ed for that matter. They differed in that Ed felt that sitting under a lonely pine tree, while contemplating the Lord's will, was the moral equivalent of attending any church. Mattie was more conventional in outlook.

"Mayor Diddler! Mayor Diddler! Wake up!" a high pitched male voice excitedly demanded.

Like an enormous caterpillar trying to metamorphose into a grey whale, Richard Diddler bestirred himself in a hammock behind his house. He devoutly believed that warm Sunday afternoons were best slept through. With a vast effort he opened an eye, "What's wrong Jude?" he asked in a sleep gravelly voice. Jude Stevens was the mayor's chief flunky and all purpose gopher.

"It's gone, Mr. Mayor! Somebody as done made off with it," the hyper aide blurted out while wringing his hands.

The sleepy mayor inhaled deeply then sighed, "Made off with what Jude? When and why?"

"I dunno, this morning I guess," the gopher answered excitedly.

"And it is, what?" the Mayor inquired with anger rising in direct proportion to his sleepiness abating.

"Your fire engine, sir! Somebody done stole your fire engine!" the man finally blurted.

"Jehosephat!" The startled mayor sat up abruptly, which is not a good idea in a narrow hammock. It promptly spun and unceremoniously dumped him on the ground. The man ponderously got up, "Are you sure it's gone?"

"Sure as taxes, your honor," which is an expression no campaigning incumbent likes. "I think Miss Linkous' people took it. They're forming their own fire department and claiming rights to the fire engine as 'a gift from God.' The reverend said so on his pulpit today," Stevens proclaimed agitatedly.

As he lumbered towards the house, to dress in attire less befitting a man sleeping in a hammock and more befitting an honorable mayor, the mayor grumbled, "Get the boys out looking for it. Quietly, in case those Baptists don't have it. If it is around town it should be easy to find. I'll decide what to do once we find it."

"Ok, boss," the gopher agreed before racing off.

It wasn't an hour before his honor the mayor received a delegation from the Baptist Church claiming jurisdiction over the fire engine and demanding that he turn it over to them. He sent them packing quickly. A half hour later found the mayor over at the Baptist Church, escorted by members of his volunteer fire company, demanding they return the fire engine to 'the town,' meaning him. Voices were raised, and accusations of theft were made by both sides. Soon, members of the opposed fire companies were fighting over an engine that, unbeknownst to any of them, was merrily rolling to Cheyenne.

Jock, Jess, and the fire engine had pulled out of the Sherman ranch shortly after breakfast with Jock happily ringing the bell and Jess driving. After about 15 minutes of bell ringing, Jock stopped and they settled down to the 50 mile trip.

"Jess," Jock asked with concern as he leaned against the back rest of the riding bench, "what are you going to do with this fire engine?" Miss Daisy's inquiry had disconcerted the shop keeper.

Jess scratched his neck, made a wry face, and shrugged, "I don't really know. No matter how much fun she is, and it will be even more fun when we figure out how to work her, I can't see keeping her permanently."

Jock grimaced, "You mean you'd sell her?"

Jess nodded and batted a horse fly away as he answered, "Well, yes. You heard how much she cost. Besides, just how much fire fighting will she do out on our spread? If Laramie had a fire, and we somehow knew about it, the whole place would burn down before we got there," Jess glumly admitted, coming to terms with the reality that the ranch was just too far away for major fire fighting heroics.

Jock quieted down thinking, "I have to save her, but how?"

Riding into town to visit Marcy, Slim was looking good. The rancher hadn't completely duded himself up but he was close to it. He rode in smiling, cheerfully ignorant of the cross town brawl at the Baptist church. The happy rancher soon reached his destination, tied up Alamo, and stepped into the store. "Marcy?" he called looking about hopefully."

Marcy Benson came in from the store room. She was a small, elfin slim, woman possessing short dark curly hair, and a pretty face with huge brown eyes. Currently the eyes were worry filled. "Hi Slim, what can I do for you?" she asked with more than professional warmth.

The big rancher smiled and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "I'm just in to get a few supplies for the ranch, and to deliver a message," he replied.

Marcy looked up with an expectant expression that was relieved, hopeful, and annoyed. "Jock? What is that knucklehead brother of mine doing now? I'm worried sick about him. He just up and disappeared last night," she sighed, "Tell me he's alright so that I can kill him."

Slim gave her a reassuring smile, along with a nod, "Jock is fine. He's with Jess and they're heading to Cheyenne. They'll be back in a few days."

"Cheyenne! What has your partner gotten my retarded brother into now?" She demanded with wide snapping eyes and arms open and outspread.

Slim repressed a quick smile as he answered, "Now Marcy, Jock isn't retarded he's just, uh, distractible. He and Jess are taking the fire engine up to Cheyenne to learn how to use it safely," he added quickly, "I think that's smart; many steam boilers explode if they're not treated right."

Marcy was not to be placated. Scowling, she plaintively answered, "So do sisters. Heavens to Betsy, Slim. I've been worried sick about him all day, and we have a business to run!" The affronted woman complained, "Why did he have to run off to Cheyenne? It's Jess' engine!"

Slim shrugged and joked, "I think mostly because he wanted to. I suspect that he's going to marry that fire engine when they get back."

She looked at Slim sourly then forced a little laugh while shaking her head, "Alright, thanks for telling me. It is better to know. Now I won't worry that he's off injured somewhere." Changing the subject, she then asked, "So what do you need?"

Slim handed her his list. Marcy looked it over nodding as she read it, "Ok, we have everything except maybe that, "she said pointing out one item, "I can't read it."

Slim squinted at his writing for a moment, then pronounced, "Baking powder."

Marcy nodded, "Oh. No problem. I could see that it was a powder but I thought it was blasting powder; not that such wouldn't get a rise out of a cake. It would just include the rest of the kitchen. Your writing is as bad as the doctor's," she chided.

The pair chatted amicably as Marcy rounded up Slim's order, her normally sunny nature re-manifesting as Slim jollied her back into a good humor. By the time his order was ready, Slim was ready to make the invitational leap. "Marcy, how about going to the dance with me next Saturday night? I think we would have fun," he said as the conversation turned to local activities.

Marcy's eyes widened in surprise and she leaped at the chance. "I'd love to Slim. With the store and all I don't get out much. Since Jock will be back by then, I'll get off a little early Saturday, and be ready," she replied, heart a twitter.

"Great!" The handsome rancher beamed. Then, as a seeming afterthought, carefully preplanned before hand, he nonchalantly added, "How about I take you to dinner before? Heck, how about I take you to dinner now? You've had a rough day."

Eyes dancing, Marcy tilted her head to the side and smiled broadly, "That would be wonderful. I'll finish closing up later," she said taking his proffered arm and they trooped out of the door. Ten feet into the street she stopped abruptly. "Just a moment," she said as she scampered back to the door, locked it, and returned to her sudden, though much anticipated, date. Slim had no idea that the woman had been waiting for him to ask her out ever since her felonious natural father came back to town and tried to reclaim her, two years prior.

The jail was full to bursting. Redding now shared his cell with righteously wrathful Baptists. The center cell housed the Right Holy Mayoral Candidate Linkous, and the far cell was jammed with shouting Diddlers. The gambler happily watched the commotion, while trying not to laugh at the factions arrested for brawling over an engine that was neither present nor theirs. Each faction was convinced the other had absconded with 'their' fire engine. Cobb had stopped the riot at the church by recruiting help from saner parts of the community, and arresting chunks of the rioters. Still, the acting deputy was sporting a puffy lip, bloody knuckles, a limp, and a much shortened temper.

"Enough!" the deputy shouted, an admonishment that was totally ignored by the yelling and gesticulating prisoners. As he returned to fuming, Redding waved him over. "What Rufus?" the man half shouted at the only person present he wasn't angry with.

"Tyrus, do I really have to stay in this bedlam? I don't deserve this," Ruthless Redding shouted with a martyred expression and hands placed over his ears.

Tyrus Cobb shook his head, scowling at Redding's fellow prisoners. Then he pulled out his cell key, "Join me out front for a while. Hopefully, they'll be calmer in a few hours."

"Thanks Ty," the gambler said, grimacing at his cell mates. The pair went into the front of the jail and shut the intervening door. The shouting prisoners were only partly muted, but that was better than nothing. "What in tarnation was that about? Are they fighting over my fire engine? I mean the mayor's fire engine?" Redding asked in feigned ignorance.

Deputy Cobb swore softly as he put a cold compress on his torn lip. "Dadgum, who'd have thought Deacon Jones could still hit that hard at 75?" he asked rhetorically. Then he answered Rufus' question, "Yeah, somehow Miss Arena decided that the engine was God's gift to the Baptists and convinced 'the faithful' that the ungodly had stolen it. So they stole it back. The mayor then took some of the boys over to the church to repossess it, and somebody started a rumpus."

"Coffee, Ty?" Rufus asked rising to get the coffee pot and carrying it over to the desk. The pot was a fancy one, complete with a locking lid to make pouring easy.

The deputy shook his head, "Not now. Help yourself."

"Thanks. Did you get the engine back from God's chosen?" Rufus asked as he poured himself a cup. Then he set the pot down on the desk while he sat down across the desk from Cobb.

The deputy shook his head, "No, they say they don't have it. Then, when the mayor accused them of lying, Miss Arena shouted that he was trying to pull a devil's trick. Anyway, the two squared off shouting at each other, and things got kinda unpleasant."

Redding stretched and asked curiously, "What finally set the Godly and Ungodly to blows?"

Cobb smiled wryly, then flinched when the action stung his lip. "I think being called 'Satan's minion' annoyed the mayor. Of course, Mrs. Linkous didn't like his calling her Laramie's 'Virgin Witch'. From what I'm told that's when she smacked him, which is why I locked her up for assault," he said with some satisfaction. Cobb was a confirmed supporter of the mayor.

"I love elections, don't you?" the gambler laughed. Deputy Cobb just grunted back at him.

"Jess Harper help you break up the fight? I know he sometimes helps out Sheriff Corey," the gambler asked with feigned indifference. He figured that Harper had acquired the fire engine during the night and had taken it home. Unfortunately, he didn't know where he lived.

Cobb shook his head, "Harper? Nah, would have been nice to have his help, but I don't think he's in town."

"I guess he's probably back at his spread," Rufus fished for information.

"Yeah, he's probably back at the relay station," Cobb agreed nodding. "He's no help to me when he's that far out."

"Relay station? I thought Harper was a cowhand," the gambler asked curiously, pleased to have narrowed his search so quickly. There weren't many stage relay stations nearby.

"He is. The Sherman place is a right nice ranch, and being a relay station brings them in cash money," Cobb answered leaning his chair back, and putting his feet up on Corey's desk.

"Bingo!" thought Rufus. He had watered his horses there in the past. Slim Sherman was generous with his water.

Rufus drained his coffee cup. He stood and picked up the coffee pot from the desk, "Sure you don't want some?" he inquired cheerfully.

Leaning back in the desk chair, hand to sore mouth, Cobb answered, "No thanks, having coffee now will just keep me up tonight."

"This coffee won't," Rufus said. Swinging the pot hard and fast, he stepped forward and slammed it into the slack attentioned deputy's forehead. Deputy and chair both toppled with the force of the blow. "Matter of fact, I think it'll help you sleep like a baby," he grinned at the unconscious man while replacing the coffee pot on the stove.

Quickly, Ruthless Redding reclaimed his own gear and money, "Thank you Mayor Diddler for the $250!" he thought, while helping himself to a shotgun and shells. By the time he was into his own clothes, the coffee was boiling. He took the pot and poured the contents over the palms and fingers of his unconscious victim. "That'll keep you from following me for a while. Killin' you would have been easier, but I kinda like you Tyrus," he said to the unconscious blister handed man while tossing him into the closet. He left the jail, locked the door behind him and pocketed the keys. In scant minutes, Redding was saddled and heading up the road to Cheyenne while leading his spare horse. He passed Slim Sherman, and a pixyish woman, as they entered a restaurant. Good, if Sherman wasn't home, that would be one less complication when dealing with Harper at the station.

An hour and a half later found Rufus Redding boldly riding into the Sherman ranch. His time was short as he wanted to put some distance between himself and a possible posse. The evening stage sat in the yard where the driver and a boy were changing its horses. He called to them from horseback, "Evenin.'"

The pair looked up, "Evenin' mister," greeted Mike Williams.

"Mind if I get some water for my horses?" Redding inquired politely.

"No mister, help yourself," Mike replied gesturing towards the horse trough.

"Thanks son. This is the Sherman spread isn't it? Is Jess Harper about?" Redding asked in his friendliest voice. No need scaring the boy.

"Yes sir, this is the Sherman ranch and…" the rest was drowned out.

"Ok everybody, we're ready to go. Pile back in for Laramie!"Calvin Hobbes, the leather lunged stage driver bellowed in the general direction of the ranch house. There was no response, "Con sarned deaf passengers!" he grumbled as he limped up to the house. Hobbes had limped since the Devil's Den at Gettysburg.

"Sorry son, you were drowned out," Redding replied.

"I said I'm afraid Jess isn't around," Mike answered, with a touch of suspicion in his voice. In the past many people had come through looking for Jess; most with poor intentions.

"That's too bad, I owe him and wanted to pay my debt." Redding said with a theatrical sigh of disappointment. "When will he be back?"

Young Mike bought the bluff, unsurprising as Rufus Redding was an even better salesman than he was a gambler, "Sorry, sir. We don't really know." Excitement crept into Mike's voice and his eyes brightened with sudden enthusiasm, "Jess got himself a fire engine! He's off to Cheyenne to find out how it works!"

Rufus exclaimed, "For real? How did that happen? Not like he needs to put out fires while chasin' doggies!" Any friend of Harper's would almost certainly react in such a manner. Harper's departure for Cheyenne, to figure out how to operate the engine was unexpected; Redding hadn't credited the man with that much good sense. It was probably Sherman's idea. Rufus had half expected to find a large crater, where Sherman's barn should have been standing, rather than the fire engine.

"He won it in a poker game," Mike explained with a nod.

"Well, you can win the darndest things in poker games, and the man is good with cards." He paused frowning, and then he shrugged. "Well, I've owed him for a while. I guess I can owe him a while longer. Thanks son. Have a nice evening."

"You too, sir. Mind if I ask your name? That way I can tell Jess you came by," Mike asked with a helpful and friendly smile.

They were interrupted by Hobbes, and his 16 passengers, noisily spilling out of the ranch house and boarding the stage. The mass of humanity swarmed in and on top of the coach. With a loud "Giddyup," they bounced on down the road. Redding cringed at the sight as it reminded him of just how much he hated stage travel; especially since Overland didn't consider 16 passengers a full stage.

When the noise had abated, the pair continued their conversation, "That's a good notion son. That way Jess won't think I've forgotten my gambling debt." Rufus answered and made up a name on the spot, "Tell him that Jedediah Curry was here." He tossed Mike a quarter, "Thanks for your trouble, and the water," he added with polite friendliness.

"Why thanks mister!" the gratified boy called, reaching up and catching the coin.

Then Rufus Redding was off to Cheyenne, planning to catch Harper in the town. He had a few friends there who might be helpful. With luck, he would reacquire the fire engine and be long gone before anyone from Laramie arrived.

Back in Laramie, Slim and Marcy's dinner was over and the pair were making an exceptionally long and circuitous walk back to the store. It would only be a matter of opinion over which was starrier; the clear night sky over Laramie or Marcy Benson's eyes. Slim had found the evening only marginally less intoxicating and was equally in no hurry to see it end. Eventually reaching the store, Marcy gave him a long and warm good night kiss, and then gave out a startled, "Oh heavens, I still have to close out." She hurriedly unlocked the door and darted into the store. Slim savored the kiss then mischievously followed her inside.

"I've kept you out awfully late, Marcy. Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked with tremendous innocence.

She looked at him doe eyed, and answered, "Why Slim, you needn't bother. I'll be fine."

He softly smiled at her, "What's left to do?"

She made a dismissive wave at the money box, "Oh, checking cash, straightening up, and double checking tomorrow's orders."

The rancher saluted her like he had his superior officers back in the war, "I'm on it general, store straightening commencing immediately."

She giggled, "Slim Sherman, you are a very silly man," and was warmly touched by his gesture.

The pair worked with a will, flirting a bit. Maybe more than a bit, as the efficiency of their work was impacted by the more than occasional kiss. With their diligent combined efforts, what would have taken Marcy nearly 45 minutes was completed in a mere two hours. In the end, an unbiased observer would be forced to admit that the store looked very nice, freshly mopped as a matter of fact, and that the day's books were thoroughly in order. Eventually, Marcy rallied her will power and gently ushered her beau out of the store.

She went to bed musing upon what a very fine man Slim was. "He is smart, handsome, strong, handsome, intelligent, moral, tall, handsome, and caring," she giggled to herself. Marcy was convinced that Slim knew darned well that, if he had pressed, she might have not slept alone this night. She was both mildly vexed, and warmly grateful, for his gallantry. Her subsequent rest was filled with soft warm dreams that would have utterly scandalized the female mayoral candidate. When she awoke from her short night, she bolted from her bed, fully energized and bent upon a project of the utmost priority. She desperately needed a new dress for the dance.

*_*.

"Wow, what an evening!" Slim said to the coolish night air of Laramie. While he had hoped to take Marcy to dinner tonight, he never thought that he would be staying so late. Nor did he guess how much fun it would be. Next Saturday was something he was already looking forward to. "Just remember, Marcy is a proper girl; do not rush her. You don't want to scare her off," he reminded himself for the six dozenth time. "She also won't take kindly to you trying to seduce her." It is to be noted that Slim Sherman, a man blessed well beyond the norm in most abilities, was somewhat less effective than Casanova at reading the ladies.

Whistling, the tall rancher collected his drowsing horse and started towards home. Glancing down Main Street, and seeing a light in the jail, he pulled Alamo up with a start. "Mort must have something going on to be up so late," he mused. Then he set out for home, singing quietly and day dreaming about Marcy. It was a good thing that Alamo knew the way.

 ***.***

It was a fine and glorious sun filled morning where a light breeze chased wispy clouds across the brilliant Wyoming sky. Mort Corey whistled as he walked from his home to the jail. He and Iwona had returned a day early because, at eight months pregnant, Iwona found sleeping on the ground to be less than comfortable. She hadn't complained but Mort read the signs and when he suggested they come back early she hadn't argued. Besides, they had already bagged an elk and four braces of ducks.

Mort had slept in, knowing that Cobb would be on duty, and was late arriving to the jail. He was startled to discover half a dozen grumpy townspeople waiting outside of his locked office.

"Mornin' folks. What's going on?" the sheriff called out, cheerfully giving all present a friendly smile.

"Morning sheriff," four of them chorused politely as they assumed non-lounging poses.

"Late start, Mort?" Grumped the weasel like mayoral gopher, Jude Stevens.

"When are you letting Arena out?" sulked the Reverend Linkous.

The last remark brought Mort up short, "Whoa. I've been off a few days. Matter of fact, I'm back a day early. Why is Arena in jail, Reverend?" He asked, eying the preacher curiously. Arena Linkous' perpetual crusade was generally annoying, but sometimes quite amusing in the messes she created for herself. Mort saw that Reverend Larry was embarrassed, which was normal when his wife went on a religious rampage of one sort or another. Arena Linkous was devout, uncompromising, self righteous and downright bad tempered. Mort figured that if the Baptists had an inquisition she would have led it.

Reverend Linkous looked down, cleared his throat, and then fumblingly explained, "Well Mort, she and the Mayor had a bit of a set to yesterday and Arena got a little excited."

"She punched the Mayor in church, so Ty arrested her," interjected Stevens with stiff lipped outrage.

"I'll have a word with Ty," Mort answered non-commitally. Then he couldn't resist adding, "Did Diddler live?" The question brought snickers from the audience and went unanswered. Mort tried the door. "Locked I see, well Tyrus should be back in a few minutes. He must be out patrolling."

"Mort, I've been here over an hour and a half. He hasn't been here," complained the Gopher.

The sheriff frowned and spoke, "Well, I'll go over to the bank and get the spare keys." They kept spare jail house keys in the bank's safe and Mort was back in a few minutes. The crowd trooped into the jail. There was no fire in the stove but the sound of talking came from the back room where the cells were.

Mort opened the cell room door and exclaimed, "Holy Cow!" upon seeing the reverend's wife in one cell and large crowds in the other two. "Ty has been busy." He looked at the prisoner sheet, "32 prisoners? Quite a party you had at the church, Reverend," a comment that only drew an indistinct mumble from the preacher.

Mort did a head count, the overcrowding in two of the cells made it slow and there turned out to be only 31 prisoners; all of whom were decidedly tired, hungry, thirsty, and wanting to go home. Mort quickly obliged them; since none of them were in the mood to cause any more trouble save for Arena. She was quite ready to continue the previous day's festivities if the Mayor had dared to make an appearance. As she, firmly escorted by her husband, disappeared out the door Mort turned to his last remaining prisoner for an explanation. "Deacon, how did this happen? I know that you have more sense than to brawl in church."

Deacon Jones smiled wryly and shook his curly white and black maned head. "Now Mort, you know I'm a peaceable sort. I always have been," he rumbled in his deep bass voice.

"Yeah, just like Lamar, Merlin, and Rosey. Long ago I lost track of how many assorted cowboys and raiders that you four tangled with," Mort smiled. This fearsome foursome, good shepherds all, were amongst the best men he had ever known.

The huge old herder shook his head, "Mort, that deputy of yours was man handling Miss Arena. I just couldn't stand for it."

"Did she provoke it?" asked Mort with a raised finger and a piercing eye.

The Deacon's head drooped when he answered, "Well yes, she punched the mayor for insulting her. Still, men need to keep their hands off of the ladies, even if they're provoked."

Mort sighed shaking his head. In general he agreed with the Deacon, but Arena Linkous frequently pushed a man until strangulation seemed a reasonable course of action. Instead he changed the subject asking, "Deacon, what was the brawl all about?"

The great old man took a deep breath and answered, "Well Mort, it was like this….." and he told the tale of conflict over the missing fire engine.

When Jones finished, Mort shook his head, "I see the one prisoner that is missing is the one that I left with Ty. Do you know Rufus Redding?"

The man shook his head, "I know of him, although I neither drink nor gamble. What I've heard isn't flattering. When we were locked up, Redding was in the jail. Later the deputy took him out and he never brought him back. The deputy never came back either." He paused, "You haven't seen Cobb this morning have you? I hope that boy isn't hurt or dead. Redding is said to be a mean one."

Mort scowled in worry, "Well, they don't call him 'Ruthless' for nothing." The sheriff had noticed that Redding was missing from the first. He'd thought that the man had more sense than to try to escape, given the consequences if he was caught. Mort had half a mind not to pursue him, given the piddling nature of the sentence, and the fact that he was most likely charging straight out of Wyoming. Good riddance.

The Deacon's face turned thoughtful and he absent mindedly picked the coffee pot up from the cold stove. He grunted disappointedly when he found it was both cold and empty. Moving to set it back down, he stopped abruptly and looked closely at it's bottom edge. "Mort, there's dried blood on your coffee pot," he said quietly.

"Uh oh," Mort said coming over and looking at the crusty patch. He then stepped back and looked around, eventually saying, "There's a big dried up coffee spill behind my desk and a shotgun is missing from the rack. I bet Tyrus isn't far away."

"I wouldn't drag a dead or unconscious man around Laramie, even at night, if I wanted to escape. Not if I didn't have to." Deacon Jones thought out loud while looking around the mostly bare room. "The closet?"

"The closet," Mort said nodding in agreement. He stepped across the room and opened the closet door. There lay his unconscious deputy. Mort quickly checked him over and exclaimed, "He knocked him out with the pot and then scalded the helpless man's hands! That's why the stain is a puddle and not a spray. That sadistic…"

The enormous old black man put a plate sized hand upon the furious sheriff's shoulder, "Go get the doctor Mort. I'll move him to a cell bunk and get some water," he said softly, paused, and then continued with a voice strong with authority, "Swear all you like, but do it on the way." Deacon Jones was a very well respected man and was used to leading. With a nod, the angry sheriff departed at the quick step.

Jones lifted Cobb, cradling the 200 pound deputy as easily and gently as he would have one of his newborn lambs, and moved him out of the closet. By the time Mort returned with the doctor, Cobb was lying on a cell bed with his head wound cleaned and his hands lightly rinsed.

"Thanks Deacon, please step aside. You're eclipsing the sun," the doctor politely ordered while he started to work upon the injured man. The Deacon stepped back for the doctor to work.

Mort nodded towards the cell door and the pair went back out front. "Looks like Redding stole the fire engine. That's the second time he's tried that. It's what landed him in here in the first place," Mort opined.

The Deacon looked at him while shaking his shaggy head, "How do you figure that Mort? He was in here, when our brawl started, and the engine was already gone. Think maybe he's gone after it?"

Mort pursed his lips, thinking. "Hmm. Ok, somebody else took it, most likely Jess," Mort paused then continued, "Redding probably wants it back to deliver it. He probably has an order for it C.O.D. and wants the money."

Jones nodded. Jess was a common enough name, but the main Jess associated with Mort was Harper the Texan. "Why would Harper steal it? He's always been honest enough," the shepherd queried.

Mort shook his head, "He didn't. The engine is his; he won it from Redding at the poker tournament last weekend. I'm betting that Redding went to the Sherman Ranch to steal it back."

Deacon Jones scowled nodding, "Mort, I begin to suspect that fire engine wasn't a gift from above."

"It surely wasn't Deacon. It surely wasn't."

 **Chapter 5**

Mort led a spare horse and was riding hard for Cheyenne. He had set out from the Sherman ranch less than half an hour after he and the Deacon had pursued Redding there. Mike had told them of his encounter with a stranger looking for Jess. The sheriff nearly choked when Mike said that Rufus was using 'Jedediah Curry' as an alias. He'd just gotten a new poster on a bank robber by that name.

Mort then sent the elderly Deacon back to town to try to calm things down. He tasked the man with spreading the word on who actually owned the fire engine, how he acquired it, and where it was. He also asked the Deacon to telegraph a warning to Jess. That last would be easy enough as Jess intended to stay at the Railroad Hotel. They would happily hold the telegram for him. A second telegram was also sent to Marshal Owen, telling him of Redding's jailbreak. With luck, the Cheyenne Marshal would spot and jail the fugitive.

"I'll be there by dark at this rate," Mort thought angrily. "I surely hope Owen has Redding in jail when I get there. That would keep him out of trouble and, if Tyrus dies, make stretching his neck convenient." Mort was far angrier about the attack on his deputy than over the escape.

*.*

Jock rang the fire bell and waved happily at the good folk of Cheyenne. They cheerfully waved back at the pair of grinning idiots rolling through their town. Eventually the pair pulled up at the Railroad Hotel where they checked in.

"Mr. Harper," the front desk clerk said as they finished registering, "there is a telegram waiting for you."

Jock and Jess looked at each other surprised. "Alright," he finally said and was handed the missive. "Jock, we might be in for some trouble," the Texan said when he finished reading it.

"It isn't from Marcy is it?" Jock asked, face tight with trepidation. His sister was tight with their finances; if she was mad enough to spend money on a telegram then he might have to wait a year or two before going home.

"No, it's from Deacon Jones," Jess answered drily.

"Huh?" Jock answered with round eyes.

Jess nodded, equally surprised at the sender, "Yeah, it turns out that Mort is on his way here, chasing after an escaped Redding. He thinks Ruthless is coming here to steal the fire engine back."

"Over my dead body!" Jock said stoutly, while crossing his arms and scowling fiercely.

"Well, with Rufus, that could happen," Jess replied, abruptly causing Jock to pale. "It says that he laid out a deputy with Mort's coffee, and that they think he's high tailing it up here." Jess paused and then puzzled aloud, "How the devil do you lay out somebody with coffee? Mort's coffee is strong, not solid."

Jock shook his head, "I don't rightly know, Jess. Seems to me Mort's coffee is more fit to raise the dead then to concuss the living. Maybe he drugged it. We had better keep an eye on the fire engine and not drink any coffee."

"Engine yes. Coffee? Don't be ridiculous. I want my coffee. I bet there was an error by the telegraph operator. Redding laid out the deputy, sure enough, but not with coffee. Anyway, we need to be careful with the engine," Jess pronounced.

The two men hurriedly dropped off their gear in the hotel room, and got back on the fire engine. They figured as long as they were on it, nobody would be stealing it. Minutes later, Jess was inside the engine shop at the railroad station while a paranoid Jock sat watch upon the fire engine. He had a shotgun locked and loaded.

Some minutes later, Jess stepped out of the shop. "Bring her in Jock," he called.

Jock picked up the reins and clucked to the horses. In moments the fire engine stood between two massive locomotives undergoing maintenance.

A scrawny, grease spattered, middle aged man hopped down from the cab of an engine. "My that is a beauty. Let me give her a quick look," he said bounding over. He nodded and muttered to himself as he looked her over. Eventually turning back to Jess, "I can help you, sure enough. There's the water intake for the boiler," he said pointing to the intake "and there's the one for the pump. Go over to the station water tower and tell Bart that Woody said for him to fill'em. I see you have coal. Good. It burns cleaner than wood. Now, for dinner and a few beers, I'll be glad to show you how to work her this evening. Don't try it yourself," the man admonished with profound seriousness. "This type of boiler heats quickly, but is very touchy. She'll be safe enough once I teach you though."

"Not now?" Jock whined. With the fire engine, as he was with most novelties, Jock was a confirmed member of the 'Do It Now!' club.

Woody McGraw looked at him and the engine, then he sadly shook his head, "Much as I would love to, no. A man has to earn a living and I want to keep my job. But, this evening, it'll be my pleasure. Now go load her with water." Woody McGraw advised and then disappeared back onto a locomotive.

Rufus made excellent time traveling to Cheyenne. He didn't bother checking for Jess at any of the hotels. Instead he went straight to the railroad station where he was on good terms with both the maintenance and yard managers. After quick chats with both men, he took up a position to spy upon the maintenance yard. Rufus knew that Harper would have to come here eventually and he wasn't disappointed. Once both Jess and Jock were inside the maintenance shed, he moved forward and eaves dropped outside the shed door. Hearing the maintenance manager tell them to load the engine with water, Redding raced away to further his plan. "Nice work, Woody," he thought, "Hopefully Bart will tie them up for a while."

Bart Klein played his role to perfection, arguing with Jess, and refusing to believe that Woody had authorized such a waste of valuable railroad property. He kept it up for half an hour before deigning to get out of his chair and waddle across the yard to talk to Woody. Returning, he grumped, "Ok mister, you were right. Bring that thing over here and I'll lower the boom."

Jock clucked at the horses, to move the engine forward, and stopped in front of the water tower. Klein immediately lowered the water boom then opened, and quickly closed, the spout sending about twenty gallons of water cascading down upon Jock, "Whoops, sorry!" he said with a grin.

"How about in the engine, not on me?" grumped Jock tight lipped. He wanted to go punch the jerk, but then they would have to fill it by hand. The boiler, according to Woody, held about 600 gallons of water, the water tank another 200, and that was way too much work. Fifteen minutes later the fire engine was full of water when he and Jess heard a familiar voice.

"Howdy Harper, fancy running into you in Cheyenne," Rufus Redding, announced his presence.

Jess whirled, pulling his gun at the sound of Redding's voice, and found the miscreant leaning nonchalantly against the station building with his empty handed arms safely folded across his chest. "You made good time, Ruthless, since you were at the ranch last evening. We got a telegram warning that you were after us," Jess answered while lowering his still cocked gun.

Redding thought, Cripes, if Harper has already gotten a telegram then a posse can't be too far behind and local law must be on the lookout for me. Cobb must be tougher and smarter than I thought. What he said was, "After you? I don't like that sound of that. It sounds like you think I want trouble. I've already got plenty of that. I am only trying to catch up with you to talk."

Jess' eyes were narrow with suspicion. He knew Redding to be capable of violence but he also knew that he was more of a businessman than an assassin. He spoke slowly and strongly, "You and I aren't overly sociable, so I take it you want to talk business, and that business is my fire engine."

Redding nodded and replied with great reasonableness, "Yes, Jess. Your fire engine," with the emphasis on 'your.'

The simple response startled Jess. He had expected Redding to start arguing about how the fire engine wasn't his because it was worth far more than $600. A stupid argument, but that was what he expected. Now the cowpoke was curious.

Redding went on, "First, I am going to slowly take off my jacket. Then I'm turning around to show you that I'm not packing. A man thinking you are trying to get the drop on him has trouble concentrating on business." After doing so he asked, "So, can we talk?"

"What about your hold out gun?" Jock demanded, all but leveling his shotgun at him. The storekeeper had Deputy Cobb's mysterious coffee related fate clearly in mind.

Redding gave him a sour look, "In my saddle bags. I didn't come here to fight or threaten you. Besides, I know Harper to be a first rate gun hand, not a nut case." The escapee nodded down the street towards where his horses were tethered, "Go on down there and look if you like."

"I will," Jock said sharply, and then he trotted down the street.

"Ok Rufus, I'm listening. This is your play," Jess acknowledged while reholstering his gun. Suspicion was still writ large upon his handsome features.

"Thank you," the man replied; then he continued on,"Alright, the way I see this, you really don't have a lot of use for a fire engine. What are you going to use it for on a ranch? So selling it is a good idea, but to who? I already have a buyer. I'll give you $1000 when they pay me."

"And I am to hand you the engine and trust you until then?" Jess asked, smiling with mild derision.

"Well, that would be nice, but I figured you would come along," Redding answered drily.

Jess was surprised by the simple fact that Redding actually was here to dicker with him. They started to talk in earnest, being interrupted by a returning Jock who said, "There were a pair of derringers and a Colt in Redding's saddle bags, plus other weapons." The negotiations then recommenced with Jess informing the unhappy Redding that he knew he had paid $2200 for the engine so he knew it was worth considerably more than that.

The negotiations made Jock very unhappy, but the fire engine belonged to Jess. As the talk continued, he entertained himself by scuffing the ground with the toe of his boot. He noticed a commotion down the street and then smelled smoke. At that point an alarm bell started ringing. "Jehosephat, Jess there's a fire!" he cried.

The other two men started, looked at Jock, and then down the street. Jess just a little faster than Redding.

"And we've got a fire engine. C'mon Jess let's go!" Jock cried excitedly, jumping up onto the passenger side of the bench.

Jess nodded eagerly, then his expression dropped. "Jock, we can't. We don't know how to work her yet."

"Speak for yourself, cowboy. Silsby taught me so that I could teach my buyer. Lets go! Or do you really want to give her up without ever having used her?" Rufus challenged excitedly while gesturing towards the commotion.

Jess looked over and saw that Redding was as excited as he and Jock, "Shoot, yeah! " Jess shouted and he bounced onto the bench seat.

"Hold up Harper, I have to light the boiler. It's a fast starter but it still takes about ten minutes to bring her up to steam. We can light it here and she can warm up as we go," the fugitive shouted as he moved quickly towards the back of the fire engine.

"Then do it Redding! Get it going!" Jock cried, wild eyed and eager to be off.

Rufus took the requisite flammables, put them in the boiler and lit them off using coal oil. "Roll her, Harper!" he cried, stepping up on the back, and taking a firm grip for the bouncing ride he expected.

Roll her Jess did. Down the street at a flat out gallop, with Jock wildly clanging the bell, and startled people scattering like chickens with a fox in the barn yard. Finding the fire was not difficult; Jess simply followed the crowd. Townspeople scurried towards the blaze, buckets in hand, forming an impromptu bucket chain. The chain might as well have been an arrow for pointing out the fire, which was at a rundown livery stable.

As Jess moved towards the blaze, he saw men braving the flames in order to get horses and mules out of the building. The equine evacuation was not going well. Many of the animals were scared witless and resisted their rescuers. The air was saturated with smoke, and the noise of frightened equines competed with the racket of Jock's frantic bell ringing.

Unexpectedly, the fire engine let out a screech like a half sized locomotive. The noise startled the rig' horses, who surged forward. Fortunately, it also alerted the crowd in front of them to make way. In a moment, Jess regained control of the team and they pulled up in front of the building.

"Sorry I scared the horses. I was testing the steam pressure with the whistle," Redding shouted over the commotion of the fire and townspeople, many of whom now surrounded their technological marvel.

"Ok Rufus, now what?" Jess shouted, fierce eyed with excitement, as he threw the wagon's brake.

"We'll have enough steam in a minute. Let's get a hose attached," Redding called back moving to the side of the wagon where he grabbed a rolled up hose, threw it and threaded one end to a side mounted pipe. "Screw more hose on the end to get closer. Take this nozzle and put in on the end." Jess grabbed more hose, and the nozzle, and got to work. Leaping forward, he grabbed the end of the attached hose, then ran towards the fire. When he reached the end of the hose it went taut, stopping him abruptly and landing him on his butt. Jess leapt back up, attached another length of hose and then raced away again. A dozen townsmen followed him.

Rufus Redding excitedly returned to the hot boiler, and was surprised to find Jock there. He thought the man had been following Harper. "What now Redding?" Jock shouted, eager to be fully involved.

"Get the horses unhitched. We don't want them spooked and running off with the wagon. They're not trained for this yet." the card sharp answered, getting a nod from Jock.

Rufus checked some gauges, shoveled a bit of coal, tooted the whistle, and then returned to his gauges. Eventually he grabbed a wheel and then grunted when he couldn't turn it. "Confound it. Help me turn this, will ya?" Redding shouted at Jock who had just finished with the horses. "What's your name anyway?"

"Jock Benson," the store keeper yelled as he also grabbed the wheel. Grunting, both men exerted all of their force and the wheel spun. The hose inflated as gurgling water shot down it's length. The water got to Jess and nothing happened; the nozzle was closed. Jess flipped a valve on the nozzle, water gushed out, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Jess, Jock, and Rufus all laughed in excitement.

Redding, the acting engineer, turned to Jock, "Ok Jock, here is how it is. I've got to keep the boiler hot enough to keep the water pressure up, but the pressure in the boiler low enough so that it doesn't explode. So I'll be watching gauges and opening and closing valves. Can I get you to shovel some coal and…"

"Who are you boys?" An unfamiliar voice of authority inquired. It was Cheyenne's marshal.

Without missing a beat Rufus continued addressing Jock"…. and explain what we're doing here?" he had no desire to talk to authority figures, so he turned his face towards the gauges and away from the lawman.

Jock explained with infectious excitement. Marshal Owen exclaimed, "Good Lord! That engine is a wonder, look at her put out the water. It surely beats the bucket chain. We wouldn't have a prayer of saving that building without your help."

"We can use your help marshal," Rufus said, while studiously looking at his gauges and not at the lawman. "We're going through quite a bit of water, but if your bucket chain dumped into our reservoir we could run out another hose."

Marshall Owen grinned, "Well, tarnation! Water coming your way." Turning away to his bucket chain he called out, "Boys reform over to here. We're dumping into the fire engine. Come on come on!..." and he was gone.

"We can run two hoses?" Jock shouted excitedly, completely forgetting that Jess had told him to stay with the engine and to keep an eye on Redding.

Rufus Redding nodded happily, "Yes, and you can use the second hose to keep the guys on the first hose safe while they do the same for you. Run out the hose Jock! I'll send you the water when you get to the stable door!"

With a whoop, Jock grabbed a length of hose, attached another to the engine and was off, followed by a squadron of eager assistants.

"Alone at last," Rufus thought, smiling happily. "Just me and a couple of thousand residents. Well that complicated things, but was expected."

Jess and his helpers hosed the entrance down, and then they entered the building. It was an inferno of blazing hay, terrified horses, fire and smoke. He heard a scream to his left and spotted a man with his hair and shirt ablaze. Jess washed him down, and his helpers carried the injured man out. The Texan then called for most of his assistants to drop off the hose and help elsewhere, as they were getting in each other's way. Returning his attention to the fire, long forgotten words from his father came back to him. "Son, if you ever are fighting a fire, dump your bucket on the base of the fire. Don't get all excited and throw the water at the flames. That won't do nothin'. Wet the fuel. Cool it. Drown it. Fire doesn't like that a bit."

"Ok Pa!" Jess said without thinking and soon discovered how well that advice worked with a charged fire hose. The rush defeating an out of control fire is a primal experience that is difficult to describe. The thought came to Jess, "Dad Gum, this is some of the best fun I've ever had." Jess felt nine feet tall, four feet wide, and completely covered in hair.

They had been at it for some minutes, making good work, when Jess heard the man behind him excitedly demand, "Mister, give me a try with that."

Jess started to shout, "No, I have the nozzle." but felt embarrassed at his selfishness. Instead he handed the nozzle over shouting, "We'll take turns, friend."

The man nodded happily, grabbed the nozzle, and immediately slipped on the wet ground. The nozzle went flying out of his hands. Jess saw it whip around through the air, flying back under the pressure of the water stream, and then everything went black.

 **Chapter 6**

"I really can't be certain until he wakes up, but I think he'll be alright," was the next thing that Jess heard. The stranger's voice continued, "I'll look after him until I'm sure."

"Thanks doc," Jock Benson sounded unhappy.

Another unfamiliar voice spoke next, "Doc, Johnny and I need to be going back. There's still some work left to do."

"Ok Roy, I have it from here. Tell everybody that Chet will be alright. Bald and with no eyebrows, for a while, but basically alright. The actual burn is only a little worse than a bad sunburn. However, if this gent hadn't soaked him down when he did, it could have been very bad," the first stranger replied.

Jess heard a door open and close. He managed to get his eyes open and peered through the murky haze of half consciousness. His awareness rapidly cleared as full consciousness returned along with a blazingly sore head. He reached up, felt a bandage wrapped around his temple, and thought randomly, "Another one. How many of these have I worn in the last five years?"

Jock's face came blurrily into view. "Jess, you're awake!" he smiled in relief.

"Yeah, hooray for me. What happened?" Jess grumblingly asked while squinting, blinking, and one handedly cradling his outraged head.

"Some guy dropped the fire hose and the nozzle brained you," Jock announced with a sympathetic grimace.

"I remember that now," Jess said, as he wobblingly stood up, "Jock the fire!" he shouted and stood up swaying. The shout sent pain shooting from one side of his skull to the other. Loud noises were not a happy thing.

"Easy Jess, the fire is out," Jock responded putting a steadying hand upon Jess' near shoulder.

The first voice that Jess had heard sternly announced, "Sit down, Mr. Harper. You're not going anywhere until I look you over and likely not then." Jess knew the sound of a doctor without even looking. Sitting down, he happily discovered, made the room spin more slowly.

The young doctor, a man who probably hadn't seen 30 yet, thoroughly examined the Texan's head. "Dented but not broken," he eventually pronounced, "You have a remarkably thick skull."

Jess was recovering quickly and by the end of the examination all of his wobbliness was gone and the room was immobile. Aside from the headache, he was fully fit again. "Doc, I don't know how many times I've been called hard headed. I guess they're right," he replied with a small cheerful smile.

"I guess they are," the dark haired doctor smiled reservedly in response, then he frowned. "You might have a mild concussion, so no alcohol tonight. You can drink tomorrow."

Jess made a face and nodded. To his surprise the nod hurt. "Ok Doc, but I hope you know how many free rounds Jock and I are missing out on."

"Not hardly," the doctor snorted.

"Uh Jess," Jock hesitantly spoke, "the fire wasn't accidental. A boy saw Rufus in there and they think he set it. Worse, some folks think that we are his partners."

"What?" Jess shouted as he bolted to his feet, wanting nothing more than to pound on the fugitive poker player. "That's not good. Let me guess," he said pausing, "the engine is gone too, along with Redding."

Jock looked down, shamefaced. "I kinda forgot to look after him and the engine. Once the fire was down to smoldering, Rufus shut down the engine and the locals drug us over to the saloon to celebrate. A really pretty gal took a liking to me and we went off to, uh, chat," Jock finished blushing while toeing the floor.

Jock wasn't too sharp with the ladies. Jess could just see Rufus siccing a soiled dove on him as a distraction, while he waltzed off with the fire engine. Jess sighed, sitting back down, "At least we're not in jail."

"And you're not going to be," announced Marshal Owen stepping out from around a corner. "I had a telegram from Mort about your situation. When he got here we talked things over. I figure our friend Redding needs a neck stretching." Arson was not looked upon kindly on the frontier. Neither was laying out and then maiming a helpless deputy.

"He's never been a friend of mine. Mort's here then?" Jess asked, turning to the lawman and extending a hand in greeting, "Howdy Mike. Why is it whenever I come across you I'm either bleeding or have a goose egg on my head?"

The marshal took the hand and smiled, " 'Cause you're born to find trouble and have the devil's own luck; both good and bad. You've missed Mort. He's already set off after your fire engine and Redding. So, like I said, you're not going to jail, but I want you out of the public eye tonight so I have a chance to get things explained around."

"I'm heading out to help Mort," Jess stated.

"Dr. Brackett?" the marshal asked, turning to the physician for his opinion.

The physician shrugged and answered, "Medically, there is no reason for him not to. However, I think he might want to get some rest and leave once the sun is up."

Jess paused looking at the doctor, "What time is it?"

"About midnight," dead panned the physician.

Jess sighed momentarily defeated. There really wasn't much point in heading out now without any light to track by.

"Mr. Harper, stay upstairs in my home tonight and head out in the morning," the doctor generously offered with a friendly smile.

"Thanks doctor, I will. You make a body feel welcome," Jess answered with a grateful nod that only ached dully, as opposed to before when it sent bolts of lightning shooting between his temples.

Marshal Owen informed Jess, "Ralph Rizzo is with Mort. He saw the wagon heading out the west road. They shouldn't have too much trouble running it down. That thing is neither speedy nor inconspicuous." He added, "Shoot Jess, like as not they've already gotten it back."

Marshal Owen was wrong. Rizzo and Mort were bedded down for the evening and they had found nothing. Nobody on the road had seen the fire engine. No farm they stopped at was sheltering it. In the morning the pair intended to start checking side roads and to send out telegrams to neighboring towns to keep a look out. Mort was not happy.

Rizzo was quite cheerful about the whole thing. He explained that he was currently an out of work wrangler so being a paid posse member was quite welcome. What he wasn't saying was that Redding had paid him to sap Harper, and then to falsely report the engine heading out of town. For Ralph it had been a profitable day.

Jock left Dr. Brackett's house feeling like six kinds of a fool for letting Redding steal the fire engine. Grumbling, he walked the quiet street heading towards the hotel when he realized that he was not alone. A small silhouette was following him while trying not to be seen. Jock turned at the next street and then stood against the building. The steps behind him quickened and a moment later the little pursuer rounded the corner. Jock immediately grabbed the small figure, which let out a startled yell. "Lemme go! I aint doin' nothing," it said while ineffectively thrashing about.

Jock moved into the bright moonlight and discovered that he had hold of a tenish boy. "Calm down kid. I just wanted to know who was following me. I aint gonna hurt ya," he said putting the boy down while keeping a restraining hand on the child's shoulder. "What's your name, and why were you following me?" he asked.

"Walt," the boy sulkily responded, "I wanted to see what you were up to 'cause you're a shootist."

Jock laughed, releasing the boy, and ruffling his hair, "Son, I'm no shootist and I never have been. I own a store in Laramie. Who told you I was a gunman?"

The release startled the boy. The laugh and the hair tousling, were equally unexpected. This guy didn't seem very dangerous. "The guy who tried to burn down the livery said he felt bad about it. He paid me 50 cents to tell the marshal that he was afraid of you two gunmen, and that you were making him set the fire. I've been watching you and your friend ever since."

Jocks' laughter stopped immediately, "Walt, did you tell the marshal all of that?" he asked.

"No, the marshal don't like me none. He says I'm always causing trouble," the youngster replied sulkily.

Jock laughed again, "I bet you don't, but I do expect you are always in trouble. Our sheriff didn't cotton to me either, when I was growing up. I was always getting a hiding for one thing or another. You weren't causing trouble tonight were you? You were trying to see what trouble Jess and I were causing."

"No, I mean, yes I was," admitted, surprised that this adult understood. That never happened.

"That's fine son, but more than a mite dangerous if Jess and I really were up to no good. Best to leave such things up to us adults. Before I let you go though, can you tell me anything you saw Redding do after we shut the fire engine down?" Jock didn't expect to learn anything useful, but figured that it never hurt to ask.

"Redding?" the boy asked, confused.

"The guy that set the fire," Jock explained.

"Well, he went to the saloon with everybody. Then he came out and took the fire engine over to the railroad yard," the boy said, with a disinterested shrug.

"The railroad yard?" Jock squeeked, then excitedly asked, "How do you know he went there if you were watching me?"

"You can see the yard from the front of the saloon. You had gone off with Miss Connie and I really didn't want the hiding I would get if I got caught watching you with her." The worldly wise street urchin blandly reported this as somebody else might mention seeing a black cat.

Jock was instantly grateful for the darkness that hid how hard he was blushing, "So he took it there. What did he do next?"

"I dunno," the boy said shrugging, "After he took it into the maintenance shed I didn't see him no more. I think he's hiding from you and the other shootist."

"We're not shootists Walt. Er, well I'm not a shootist, and Jess only used to be," answered Jock fumbling for words. He changed the subject, "Anyway, thanks." Pulling a silver half dollar out of his pocket, he added, "Take this."

"Gee, thanks mister." The boy paused, looking down and toeing the ground, then admitted, "Ah, my name isn't Walt."

Jock smiled in the darkness, "I never thought it was. What is it son? In case I need your help later? I'm Jock Benson."

"I'm Sid Crandall," the boy answered.

"Thanks Sid. Now go home before your ma discovers you've slipped out again and whups you like you deserve," Jock advised while straightening up.

Sid started and eyed Jock with renewed suspicion, "How'd you know that?"

Jock smiled broadly, "Son, you have no idea how many times my ma switched me for doing the same thing. Now off with you," he said making a shooing gesture with his hand and arm.

The boy left and Jock turned back the way he came. His first inclination was to head straight down to the railroad yard. However sense, a commodity Marcy generally claimed he was devoid of, dictated that he collect Jess first. If he didn't, the Texan would be grouchy all the way back to Laramie. In a minute he was knocking at the doctor's door.

"Sorry to bother you doc, but I need Jess," he said, when it was answered.

Doctor Brackett looked at Jock sourly. "He needs his sleep, so make it quick. For that matter, I need my sleep too."

It only took a few minutes for Jock to roust and tell Jess what Sid had said. "Are you sure about this, Jock?" Jess asked while quickly redressing.

"It's what he said. The boy didn't think it was important but, well, it makes sense don't you think?" Jock explained.

"If Rufus meant to steal the engine, it surely does. She isn't going to outrun a posse without a whole lot of help, and she surely isn't inconspicuous. Sure as blazes, you put her under a tarp on a freight car and then you could take her anywhere," Jess answered as he put his other boot on.

Leaving Dr. Brackett's house, they saw him laying out his surgical kit while muttering about prepping for bullet extractions. As they passed him, the man looked up saying, "I sent my son down to the marshal's house to let him know what's up." The two nodded and left.

Jess and Jock walked purposefully down the street to the train station. Inquiring at the desk, they learned that no trains had departed since the fire engine went missing. They also discovered that the next train due out would be the 8:30 bound for Kansas City and then Saint Louis. Either destination would be a good place to sell a fire engine. To neither man's surprise, Rufus Redding was nowhere to be seen.

Departing the building, they found the night watchman and explained their mission. The bored old man readily agreed to help them make a search of the yard. They soon finished checking the railroad yard which only left searching the freight cars of the train, and the maintenance shed.

"Lets check the shed first, "Jess suggested, gesturing towards the building.

"Why?" asked Fritz the watchman, curiously. He wasn't overly concerned as he didn't expect to find anything in either spot. He was just glad to have some company and something to do.

"Cause a person can see us checking the train from the shed. Now, if we're in the shed, nobody from the train will see us checking inside. Same reason we started in the yard," Jess answered quietly.

"Makes sense to me," Marshal Owen answered out of the darkness. "Don't put much stock in what Sid Crandall told you, boys. No Crandall around here is worth much and that youngster was born to trouble," the lawman advised curtly.

Jock shook his head and came to the defense of his new young friend, "Marshall, he told me you'd feel that way but he had nothing to gain by lying to me."

"I 'spect he would do it just to entertain himself," replied the Marshal, "Find anything yet?"

"Nope," replied the watchman, "Don't expect to either."

"I bet we don't, but we'll look anyway," the marshal agreed shrugging. "Lightning has to strike somewhere, as the saying goes."

"Marshall, I have $5.00 says that we do," Jock challenged cordially.

"Sucker bet Mr. Benson, done. My wife has been eying a dress in the window of Mortenson's store for a month and our anniversary is next week. I'm sure she'll be grateful," the marshal said as he smilingly accepted the wager.

Jess laughed shaking his head, "Jock's always been lucky Mike. Your wife will probably be less happy than you think." Then he added, "He's the only man I know who has even odds of drawing to an inside straight."

The marshal snorted, then gestured towards the shed, "Let's just go see, shall we boys?"

So the quartet trooped over to the maintenance shed. As they approached they heard the sound of movement inside while light dimly spilled through filthy windows. "Looks like Woody is up late," the watchman observed. "Sometimes he stays up all night with them engines of his."

The watchman went over to the door, knocked, and stuck his head in. "Hi Woody, everything alright?"

"Dagnab it Fritz," the maintenance engineer called out, "go bother somebody else, I'm busy."

Fritz trooped in, waving the others in behind him. "Now Woody, we're just being sociable, aren't we Marshal?" Hearing 'marshal', Woody came scuttling forward and he was not alone. It turned out that Klein, the yard boss, was also coming to them as fast as his morbid obesity allowed.

"Evening Woody, Bart," Marshal Owen said cordially while making sure his pistol was loose in it's holster. He smelled trouble here as nasty as one of his wife's prune cobblers. Bart Klein rarely stirred his fat butt out of the station area and he always went home as early as he could manage. "What has you up so late?"

"Just Working on old 37. We need her on line tomorrow and she's been popping rivets," Woody said a little too quickly; like he had been practicing it all night.

"Bart came down to help you out?" the Marshall asked, smiling like a tiger.

"Criminy, no!" the engineer answered quickly while licking his lips. "A donkey would be more helpful than Bart. No, Millie kicked his fat butt out of the house and he's been crying on my shoulder while I've been trying to work."

"Uh, yeah," the yard master said looking very nervous. "What do you want Marshal?" he added.

"Why the fire engine you two clowns stole." Marshal Owen said equitably while taking a no nonsense stance. "Where is it?" Bart sagged and Woody sighed jerking his thumb towards the locomotive he was standing in front of, "Back there."

Jock grinned and Marshal Owen shrugged as if saying, "Oh well" then ordered, "You two take a seat right here as you are in some almighty hot water." The crestfallen pair sat, covered by Jock, and the other three moved forward.

Fritz and the marshal rounded the locomotive and were greeted by twin double barreled shot gun blasts. The elderly watchman dropped soundlessly, never to rise again. Conversely, Owen had plenty to say, shrieking in pain at the buckshot wounds in his leg.

"Sweet Jesus, no!" exclaimed a wide eyed Woody, leaping up as Klein curled up into a whimpering ball. Woody and Jess, pistol in hand, rounded the engine at about the same time with Woody making a bee line for the shrieking marshal. Jess engaged Redding, and a second shot gun armed man, as they furiously reloaded behind the cover of the fire engine.

On the run, Jess fired twice taking down the stranger, and then dove behind an oak and iron tool trunk that immediately stopped a spray of lead from Redding's shot gun. Woody grabbed and hauled the wounded Owen to safety behind the locomotive. Only then did Jock unfreeze, but he was torn between covering Woody and Bart, and helping out Jess.

"Tarnation Harper! Why couldn't you go off chasing wild geese like Corey?" the irate murderer shouted with his gun leveled at the iron bound trunk shielding the Texan.

Jess' showed his hat over the trunk and Redding blasted it, allowing the Texan to leap up and charge the fire engine, firing as he came. Redding dropped the shot gun and slapped leather. It was too little too late as Jess was too good a shot. The gambler went down clutching a shattered shoulder and dropping his pistol.

Jess kicked away Redding's gun; then double checked his other adversary. He rolled the man over with the toe his boot. "Shoot," he said to himself, "If it isn't my old chum who dropped the hose nozzle. Come to think of it, I saw the nozzle dance right in front of me and I got whacked on the back of my head. I bet this joker has a buddy." Then he yelled loudly, "Heads up Jock. There's still one of'em on the loose."

"Ok Jess, are you alright?" Jock called back, covering his prisoners while trying to look in all directions at the same time.

"Well, as good as I was coming in anyway. Dang my head hurts," he grumped. As it turned out, no other villain made an appearance. For now it was over.

Jock and Jess' late night continued. They were up for hours helping the doctor extract buckshot from Owen and Jess' slug from Redding. For Jess it was a novel experience as Brackett used a liquid called 'ether' to make his patients unconscious. "Doc, next time I get shot I want to come here to you," Jess announced when the wounded men slept through Brackett's cleaning their wounds with alcohol. Well did the Texan know the pain of _that_ procedure.

"Well, just don't bleed to death on the way. New business is always welcome, but how about just avoiding getting shot?" the deep voiced Brackett had responded jokingly.

Jess had shrugged and answered, "I do my best, but somehow that's never been too good."

In the end, the physician announced that the marshal would hurt like the devil for a while but should heal up fine. Conversely, Redding's arm could not be expected to fully recover.

The next morning, the pair got up late and after breakfast they tried to find someone to train them on how to safely use the fire engine. In the end, they wound up driving the rig to the jail and talking taciturn deputy Mason into letting Woody out long enough for instruction. They went at it all afternoon and, at the suggestion of the deputy, washed down the outer walls of the jail for practice. Several townsfolk also joined in on the fun and wound up soaking wet.

"You know Jess, I really like Cheyenne. The folk here are right friendly," Jock announced as yet another of the local girls came by and caught his eye." He never had this much female attention in Laramie, unless you counted the extended and undivided attention of Marcy when she was on a rampage.

Jess laughed at the comment as he'd been eyed up by several gals himself. He also knew that word on how expensive the fire engine was, had gotten out. Those girls figured them for wealthy and unattached men. "Stay if you like Jock, but tomorrow I'm heading back to Laramie. I don't know about you, but I've got work to do there."

Jock blanched. He had work to do in Laramie too. He was all too certain Marcy was going to tell him all about it, in detail. Great, glorious, and excruciating detail. He grimly replied, "I hope Slim has been busy courting Marcy. Really really busy…"


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2- Diddling Around

 **Chapter 7**

The owner of the saved livery stable also owned the 'Cheyenne Club' so the men's last night in town had been long and lively. Many ladies had clamored for their attention. In short, alcohol flowed, music played, people danced, and a good time was had by all.

The following day saw Jock and Jess homeward bound on the fire engine. "Thanks for the help with dresses," Jock said with smiling sincerity. "That other dress looked great on Rachel, and she's about the same size as Marcy. If you hadn't said something I would have bought it instead of the one we got."

Tossing his head, Jess laughed as he drove the wagon, "Don't tell anyone, but I took the trouble to get schooled on women's clothes a while back. You'd be amazed how helpful it's been over the years. First, Rachel is nowhere near the same size as Marcy. She's the same height but she is a _whole lot_ bigger in the, uh, chest. Second, she's a really popular dance hall girl so she wears clothing emphasizing that part of her build. Lastly, she's a mulatto with a dusky complexion."

"So? What's wrong with mulattos? Alisande is a mulatto and she's as nice a girl as there is," Jock countered with mild belligerence.

Jess cocked an eyebrow at Jock's getting his back up, but who was Alisande? Then it dawned upon him, "Oh, Allie! Deacon Jones granddaughter. Yes she is, but we're not talking personalities. We're talking clothes. That brilliant green was spectacular on Rachel but it would make Marcy look about two weeks dead," Jess said shaking his head as he explained his judgment.

"Really?" Jock asked, frowning in surprise. "But it was so pretty!"

"Pretty on the shelf isn't the same as pretty on the girl. Trust me, Marcy'll like the peach dress a whole lot more," the cowpoke turned amateur fashion guru reassured Jock.

Neither Jess nor Jock were normally much interested in women's wear; the women in it yes, the wear itself not so much. Jocks' shopping excursion had a purely anaesthetic motive: the dress was purchased in an effort to reduce the future pain he expected to suffer at Marcys' hands for having hared off to Cheyenne.

Back in Laramie, Lilly Spencer stood in front of her prized full length antique mirror. It was an ancient Dalyngridge family heirloom, passed down to her through her mother. It had originated from, Aelueva, the wife of Richard Dalyngridge. Carefully maintained, the antique was far older than it appeared. Lilly stood before it, wrapped in a deep discussion of her future. "What would George Sand do?" Lilly Spencer asked, looking into the mirror at the woman there. George Sand had become her guiding star subsequent to her discarding Jesus as impractical. "George would go after what she wanted, of course!" the Woman in the Mirror lectured her.

"That hasn't worked out well so far. I'm pregnant," she countered sardonically, "and Big Richard is married."

The Mirror Woman shook her head in response, "He promised to get your oils shown through his connections, and that was the point of bedding him. So we got what you wanted. The pregnancy is just a minor complication. Your art is everything, your immortality, your life," the Mirror Woman stoutly reassured her.

Lilly nodded and smiled at the Woman in the Mirror. She was right; she always was. "Now what? I can't just abort the baby, that would be wrong," she continued with her smile turning into a frown.

The other woman grimaced, "That is a problem, and babies must be legitimate here. You don't have enough money to move to France and live like George." She paused and then announced, "You need a husband."

"The child is the mayors…" Lilly started hesitantly, frowning in concentration.

The Mirror Woman shook her head, "He won't leave his wife. That would kill him politically. Worse, as provincial as the United States is, you can't just openly become his mistress. How about Slim Sherman? He's well respected."

Slim had been her boyfriend and she had initially welcomed the relationship turning serious. Then she had become skittish and dropped him. Her growing fondness and his dependability, the last quite eerie to her experience, had been too unnerving. Lilly made a face and answered, "You always bring up Slim. Oh, he's is nice enough…."

The Mirror Woman shook her head interrupting, "He's also handsome, respected, and has his own ranch. You must be practical. Think of him as Casimir Dudevant, George's dull husband," she pressed. Then she added wistfully, "Only he's nice, smart, has big shoulders, dreamy eyes, lovely blonde hair, and a sense of humor."

Again Lilly made a face, and then she counter suggested, "What about Jess Harper? He's way more fun than Slim; handsomer and a better dancer too."

"Also an easier seduction," the Mirror Woman agreed with a nod, "but he'll wander off some day. Seduce and marry Slim; have an affair with Jess. Slim is very trusting and you'll be able to carry that off without a hitch. That is what George would do."

Lilly Spencer smiled at her co-conspirator happily, "That wouldn't be bad. Oh course, if I fail with Slim, I can still kill Betty Diddler and marry the mayor." Consulting with the understanding Woman in the Mirror always put complicated matters into perspective.

The Mirror Woman nodded approvingly, "It's always good to have a backup plan."

"There you go boy," Slim Sherman said to his tired horse as he finished currying him in his stall. It had been a busy three days, bringing a small herd down from high country near Gordon's Folly. Fortunately, that area was easy to work. Alamo munched contentedly as the rancher left his stall and headed to the ranch house.

"Welcome back Slim. Come fishing with me?" Mike cheerfully caroled in his newly cracking voice as he bounced off of the porch with his fishing gear.

Slim smiled tiredly at the boy. Some quiet time sounded good. "Give me a few minutes Mike. I've had a hankering for an apple and some cheese, all day," he answered.

"Ok, Miss Daisy made biscuits for dinner," Mike volunteered eagerly.

Slim laughed in reply, "Thanks for the heads up. Go grab my gear; I'll be back in a moment." Mike had just enough time to grab the tackle because Slim was as good as his word.

The pair trooped off to the lake to catch the evening bite. They spent a couple of pleasant hours together, while saying little. It was only with the deepening of the gloaming, as they packed and then started the walk home, that a frowning Mike asked, "Slim, you're taking Miss Marcy to the dance aren't you?"

Slim looked at the boy in surprise and answered, "Why, yes I am Mike. Why? You aren't usually curious about my time visiting with ladies."

Mike explained as they walked, " Miss Daisy wanted me to get some spices Tuesday. When I got them, Miss Marcy gave me a licorice whip and mussed my hair. She never does that. Then, out on the street, Miss Lilly asked if you were going to the dance. I told her I thought you were going with Miss Marcy and she got right grumpy."

Slim frowned into the darkening landscape, thinking, Lilly Spencer dumped me months ago and since then has been spending time with the mayor's son. What did she have cause to get grumpy about?

Mike continued. "Then today I got to school, and I heard a bunch of talk about how Miss Marcy and Miss Lilly near came to fighting after I left. I was wondering if everything is alright with them 'cause they aren't actin' like themselves and," the boy finished. He was both concerned and confused by their odd behavior.

Slim simply shook his head, and gave the boy a small shrug. "Don't worry over much Mike, women are like that sometimes. I'm sure they'll sort out whatever is between them." He didn't add, Which I think is me. He then changed the subject, commenting cheerily, "That was a beautiful red ear you caught. I bet he's three pounds."

Mike puffed up proudly, "Yeah, he hit really hard and…." and all further talk was of fish.

Back in Laramie, two women sat in the Benson front room surrounded by fabric and the tools of sewing. "Marcy, we can't finish this by Saturday," Mattie Bradford stated flatly. "Not with you working and me busy with church functions." The Baptist church was deeply involved with Arena Linkous' campaign. As usual, Mattie was heading up everything related to music and/or the church kitchen. That Marcy was a poor seamstress didn't help the sewing situation.

Uncharacteristically, Marcy was near tears from frustration and a lack of sleep. Single handedly running the store, while trying to get the dress done and performing critical household chores, resulted in an uncharacteristic outburst, "Mattie, we have to! Slim finally asked me out and I need to look my best. I really do. I'd get Maggie Muldoon to do it but she says she can't possibly get to it for a month."

The older woman went quiet, and studied Marcy with a cold look of appraisal. "Lamb, come here. I need you to look in the mirror," Mattie said gently while gesturing the younger woman over. Reluctantly, Marcy put aside the mangled fabric on her lap.

Mattie spoke, gesturing elegantly with her hands and arms, as the younger woman looked into the mirror. What Marcy got was _not_ the gentle motherly reassurance she was expecting. "As you know, all men are subject to beauty and Slim is _very much_ a man. He's one of the best, hereabouts." Marcy nodded as Mattie continued, "Fine clothes help, there's no denying that, but they only help. You need the basics in place or they will do you little good. There you are fortunate as you are quite pretty."

To Mattie's surprise, the normally high spirited Marcy burst into tears, "I look like a boy. I'm not like you Mattie. You're curvy, busty, and just plain beautiful. I bet men fell all over you. Me, I'm skinny, spindly, and and and _flat_!" The last word burst out of her in desperate self condemnation.

Mattie's eyebrows danced up her forehead and came down in a fierce scowl as the image of Lilly Spencer came to mind. Lilly was abundantly curvy, though plain of face and possessing mousy hair. Lilly and Marcy had a set to the previous day, broken up by Deacon Jones. Mattie had tried to wheedle from the Deacon the whys and wherefores, but he was as infuriatingly tight lipped as her beloved Ed could be. This was saying something as telegraph operators were professional secret keepers. The light now dawned upon the nature of that disturbance. Obviously, the pair had gotten into it over Slim: previous girl friend vs. new girl friend squabbling over property rights. Her scowl vanished into a soft, comforting, expression.

Mattie smiled and tossed her head with pride, "Why so I was, a good quarter century gone by. You should have seen me at your age. I was saucy and curvy, but you listen here. You are every bit as attractive as Lilly Spencer. She's naught but a mousy haired, moon faced, witch. Trust me, judging beauty was part of my work. Ok, she's bustier than you, and has a first rate rear end, not that most men could tell that last under the current fashions," Mattie pronounced. Then she unsheathed her cat claws, "of course Slim may well have had a better view, scarcely unique mind, than most. However, that won't matter since she unceremoniously dumped him. Proud men don't cotton to that and Slim is justifiably proud."

Marcy sat dumbstruck as Mattie's cold blooded assessment continued, "You have a lovely neck, an enviable complexion, and a truly lovely heart shaped face crowned with thick, curly, jet black hair. But look in the mirror. You're giving yourself bloodshot raccoon eyes. The dress has to wait until another time. It is costing you too much elsewhere." She paused a moment, then nodded to herself, "Here, I promise you that I'll get the church to have another dance in three months. That will give you plenty of time to get together a dress to wow Slim."

Marcy's outburst abated under Mattie's assurances, and her own natural curiosity, "What work, Mattie?" she asked. Mattie never mentioned previous work and, for as long as Marcy could remember, she had worked with her husband in the telegraph office.

A quick flash of fond old memories confronted Mattie, "Pray forget that I mentioned it and just take my word. Please don't speak of it to anyone as I dislike remembering my dreary life, before Ed," she fibbed. "Egad, woman!" she thought to herself. "Confession is good for the soul but only if you do it to God. Mere mortals aren't nearly so forgiving!"

Mattie continued while gesturing at the brutalized fabric, "For now, put this dress up and we will beat it into shape when we have the time. Say every Sunday after church. Now go and get some sleep." She then smiled and added, "Mama Mattie has spoken!" in a voice made deeper and very resonant (Mattie had a fine contralto singing voice with a very deep range). Generally this would bring a laugh. This time it did not but at least Marcy smiled and nodded her acquiescence.

Mattie left Marcy's home, walking in the cool night air. It wouldn't be long before she would want her sweater as the Wyoming evenings were turning towards their fall inclinations. As she walked, her mind went back in time to the foggy San Francisco nights of 1850 Sidney-Town (which later, after it had calmed down considerably, became infamous as the Barbary Coast). There she, wild 18 year old Matilda Lockerbie, was the undisputed Queen of the Sidney-town dance halls. As the lead dancer at the finest dancehall in Frisco, she had supervised the other dancers and enforced discipline. Her efforts resulted in tremendous profits, a genuine camaraderie amongst the ladies, zero prostitution, and the lowest turnover rate in the city.

It had been a lively three years, full of action, money, oh so attentive men, mayhem, murder, and theft as Sidney-town was not for the timid. It was there that she had met Ed. He had been one of her many dance partners and a musician at the hall. Initially, Ed had not impressed her. Near sighted and neither physically imposing nor full of witty sayings, he further earned her disapproval by frequently stepping on her feet. On the other hand, he had been an intelligent, steady, and kind man with wit that was as spare as he was. They became friends though it was a full year before she learned that he was an escaped felon from the Port Arthur Prison in Tasmania. For the last 25 years, Ed had steadfastly maintained that he had managed his escape by disguising himself in a kangaroo skin and hopping out. It was a story that Mattie manifestly disbelieved.

Still, it had been Ed who had helped her escape from the Tong. That deadly criminal organization had been irate after discovering her hobby of clandestinely spiriting off conscripted Chinese prostitutes. "What a truly hair raising, but oh so romantic, episode that escape had been. Oh the joy I've shared with that man over the years. Ed Bradford, you're neither sensible, nor practical but I wouldn't trade you for ten times your weight in gold," she thought exultantly as she swished up the street.

Jock shouted, "I'm home, Sis!" as he bounced through the front door of the Benson home. He had arrived with the sunrise and was tickled to be back. "She must be upstairs," he thought as he galloped up the hard wood stairs in his heavy leather boots.  
Face still puffy from sleep, a half awake Marcy stuck her head out of her bedroom door. "Tarnation Jock! Do you think you can make some more noise? I'm sure you've roused only half of boot hill."

Jock looked at her, surprised. "Are you still abed? You're always out waking up the roosters to keep'em on schedule. Are you sick?" he asked frowning and genuinely concerned.

"No. _Somebody_ left me a store to run and I've been trying to sew a dress for the dance. Mattie made me give up on the dress last night and I _was_ sleeping in; trying to catch up on some rest," she gave him an exhausted and daggered look.

Jock gaped at her open mouthed. "Sis you can't sew. If you made a pair of pants they'd have three legs and none of'em would be the same length," Jock proclaimed without thinking. It was an accurate observation that fully woke Marcy up and caused storm clouds to gather over her. Fortunately for Jock he continued, "Which is why I bought you _this_!" he exclaimed as he handed her a neatly tied package. On the way back from Cheyenne, four times Jess had kept him from opening it, to gloat at the enclosed gift. If the Texan hadn't, the dress would have probably gotten wadded up and stuffed next to the coal oil can.

Marcy took the package, face rife with curiosity and suspicion. Anything could be in it as the only guarantee was that Jock didn't MEAN any harm. She burst the string and tore the wrapping paper. Gently she unfolded the peach dress and then looked up at her smiling elder brother in grateful surprise. "Jock! It's beautiful," she exclaimed and then grew concerned. "But will I fit in it?" She immediately disappeared back into her room, shutting the door behind her.

Jock let out a sigh of relief, unaware that he had been holding his breath. Once past the initial mad Marcy never went back to it. The trick was getting through the initial blast; like black powder she would only explode once. Jock waited to see the dress on his sister knowing that he would be recruited for hemming. Ten minutes later he was still waiting so he knocked on the door, "Sis, what's the verdict?"

"Oh, sorry Jock. I've been looking in the mirror. Just a second." Then the door opened and Jock let out a whistle.

"Excuse me miss, I was looking for my drab homebody sister. What's your name and when did you arrive in town?" he asked, looking over her and glancing around her room in mock confusion.

Marcy tossed her head playfully and let out a laugh. "Why just this minute. I'm afraid your drab sister is gone forever. Jock, this dress is beautiful! You shouldn't have spent the money, but I'm so glad that you did. It even fits. We don't have to do anything. I'd have never guessed that you could pick a dress that was both beautiful and fit." She threw her arms around her older brother in a huge hug. Jock smiled, happily wrapping his arms about her and gently rocked her from side to side. He was not about to volunteer that Jess had picked the dress.

Later that day at the Sherman ranch, Miss Daisy was in full storm. Such an event was so rare that the two men at the center of it weren't sure what to do. "Land's sake! A body goes to town, and when she gets back here heaven alone knows what mischief she will find. Have you no sense? Why couldn't you just leave it to me like you always do, Jess Harper!?" The elderly woman demanded with her hands upon her hips and wrath blazing from her eyes.

"Daisy, Mike really needed a bath and we thought we'd take care of it. That's all," Jess said meekly glancing down.

Slim raised his hand and opened his mouth, preparatory to coming to his partners' aid, but Daisy rounded upon him before he got one word out, "What do you have to say about this Slim Sherman? I know you have sense! Why don't you use it?"

"Daisy, nothing is broken and ….." the blonde rancher started, taking a half step back from the detonating housekeeper.

"And that's only by God's good grace! No thanks to the pair of you! I bet he has that arm in a sling for a week or more," she interrupted wrathfully, while wildly waving her index finger at the pair of men.

Neither man had an answer for that. It might well be true as there was no telling yet if the boy's injury was a light sprain or not.

Daisy finally broke the ensuing silence by turning to Mike and saying, "Come into the house and we'll get you into some dry clothing." The boy meekly followed the irate woman, fearing that he might be her next target.

Both men were silent until Daisy was safely behind a shut door. "That probably wasn't our best idea," Slim finally said, "though he smells a lot better than he did."

Jess snorted, then he leaned near to Slim and spoke so that there was no possible way the words could carry into the house, "Did you see his face when I rolled up with the pressure high and the water ready to go?"

Slim laughed quietly, while turning away from the house and covering his mouth with his hand, "Yes, I did. He thought he was so clever, after ducking us inside, when he climbed up that tree."

Jess chortled, "Well, that's worked for him in the past. It just became a little predictable."

Slim shook his head and moved his hand to his chin in consideration, "What happened? Things were going great. I had a nice steady cold stream of lake water on him, then boom! We hit him with enough pressure to blow him right out of the tree."

Jess scowled, "The pressure was getting a little high and when I went to bleed some off I turned the valve the wrong way. The pressure immediately jumped and it was enough to knock him out of his nest. I need to label those valves and practice with them some."

Slim nodded his agreement then the pair went back to mucking out the corral. "I'm glad Mike is alright. It gave me a turn when he fell," he eventually said.

Jess nodded ruefully, "Yeah, me too. We did get off lucky; a sprained arm is no big deal." Jess said from personal experience. Then he added, "Hopefully Miss Daisy will calm down by supper time."

"You'll have to tell me if she does," Slim grinned, fully enjoying the fact that he wasn't going to have to suffer the extended wrath of Daisy.

Jess gave his partner a wry smile, "You did pick a good evening to go court Marcy. I've a mind to make it a double date 'cept I don't currently have a girl to do it with."

Jock Benson quietly sat in the gallery of the newly finished Laramie Town Hall while the town council met. Aside from the events surrounding the election, the Council didn't have much going on. Consequently, they had been amenable to hearing Jock address them. He was to speak right after Gretta Braun presented her, largely unsigned, petition for a town ordinance banning the wearing of white shoes after the first of October.

When it was Jock's turn to speak he stood with his hands flat upon the top of the podium, "Gentlemen, a fire engine recently arrived in Laramie. It is a grand piece of equipment that I have had the privilege of operating, both in training and fighting a fire. In that fire, the engine made all of the difference between saving and losing a structure while making the combating of the blaze safer for all involved." He paused a moment to let his opening words sink in.

Jock continued, "I was also present when the fire engine was acquired by its owner; Jess Harper. Despite assertions to the contrary, it neither belongs to the mayor nor did it arrive in a thunderbolt from the hand of the almighty. Those tales originated with a man now facing the noose for murder and arson in Cheyenne. This being the case, I strongly recommend that this council purchase the engine before Mr. Harper sells it elsewhere. I know for a fact that he is considering Denver, Cheyenne, and Salt Lake City as potential markets and any of those cities could well afford to buy it. Cheyenne is particularly taken with the apparatus. Thank you." Jock sat down.

"Jock, how much does he want for it?" asked Marvin Hornbeck, noted skinflint and the owner of the local coal mine.

"Marv, he'll take as much as he can get and that's a fact. Would you do otherwise? But he won it on a bet and so has nothing tied up in it. He knows that it was initially purchased for $2200 and that he can get more for it out here.

"We could easily swing that," Gustavus Sweeney said with a nod that made his numerous chins jiggle, "but do we want to? Lets take a quick vote." When the voting was done the final tally was 5-1 in favor of purchasing the engine. Since Jess' low regard for the council was well known, they sent Jock to give him their initial invitation.

 **Chapter 7**

Four hours after the termination of Mike's unscheduled flight, Slim exchanged waves with Jock as they passed each other on the road. "I bet he's heading to the ranch to play with the fire engine while I am inbound to town for a haircut, a haggle, and to see his sister. There's a symmetry there," he laughed to himself. Slim's 'haggle' was a visit to the bank to find out just how much he and Jess had to pay to eliminate the mortgage on the ranch; a very cheerful prospect. He chuckled to himself at the wrathful look Miss Daisy had given him when he had re-stated his intentions for the afternoon and evening. There was not the slightest doubt that Jess' dinner was going to be less pleasant than his own. On the plus side of the ledger, Mike was already getting the use of the arm back- he'd only had a funny bone injury.

Later, Slim whistled happily as he walked to the bank after his haircut. Tab Elting, the barber, was surprised as he hadn't expected to see him for another three weeks. Tab had heard that he was taking Marcy to the dance so considerable good natured chaffing had occurred during the shave, hair cut, and the first time purchase of a bottled aftershave. The sight of Lilly Spencer approaching silenced Slim's tunefulness.

"Afternoon Slim," she said greeting him with a friendly smile and a flirtatious glance.

"Howdy Lilly," Slim said cordially, tipping his hat but not slowing down. He had no desire to talk with her, as that would encourage further squabbles between her and Marcy.

Lilly moved directly into his path and stopped. Slim could plow into her, stop, or dodge around. Stifling a sigh he stopped. "I haven't seen you around much lately Slim," she said giving him the eye and pushing her abundant chest up just a nudge.

"Why Lilly, I haven't been into town much lately, with things being busy at the ranch and all," he answered cordially, and then added, trying to bring this interview to a quick close, "I just came in today for a trim and to talk to our banker. Oh, and to make sure that Marcy will still be able to make it to the dance Saturday." Slim figured that flatly telling Lilly he was taking Marcy might get her to back off. He gave silent thanks for Mike's tale of Lilly and Marcy.

"Why Slim," she said, feigning surprise with large eyes, "I had no idea. Be careful with Marcy, she'll be all over your feet. She's not near the dancer I am." Her comments were made while making certain time honored movements that flirtatiously advertised her abundant curves, and they continued with the invitation, "I was hoping that you would ask me."

To Slim's great credit, his eyebrows did not jump off his head and he kept the startle from his tone. "Sorry Lilly, just being friends and all, I've already asked Marcy." This aggressively flirtatious Lilly was new to Slim and he instinctively backpedalled away from her.

A spark of anger flashed across Lilly's eyes when she heard the words that she had previously used upon him, "Just be friends," was a relationship phrase akin to "drop dead." Then she was back to flirting. "What a shame," she said while adding with her body language, See what you will be missing out on? Then she departed saying, "I'll see you there Slim. Bye."

"Bye Lilly," the bemused rancher said, while noting that Lilly was looking for a date and that Jess had complained about no lady being available. Jess liked Lilly and loved dancing with her as she was the finest dancer hereabouts. Resuming his whistling, Slim continued on to the bank for his dicker with bank president Snead. Credit was still dried up, from the Panic of '73, so he figured that they could get a good value on early repayment (thus letting the bank loan out the money to others at the current higher interest rate). He continued on optimistically.

"Dinner is ready Jess," Mike called into the smithy where Jess was making horse shoes.

The sweaty cowboy looked up with a smile, "Thanks Mike. Is Miss Daisy still on the war path?" he asked.

Mike nodded saying, "Yep, I'm having apple pie for desert, but I don't think you are."

"Well, at least I don't have to worry about arsenic in my stew," the Texan said wryly while putting down his hammer. "How is your arm doing?"

"It hurts some, and it's weak, but it's stronger than earlier and doesn't hurt as much so it's getting better," Mike replied flexing the injured arm a little and wincing.

Jess, well pleased with the arm's recovering, nodded, "Yeah, it'll be even better tomorrow. Want to go into town with me Saturday? It should be a lot of fun."

"To listen to the mayor and Miss Arena talk?" Mike asked, making a face.

"That's part of it though I was thinking you might enjoy the picnic, the exhibition of the fire engine I'm going to do, the dance, and the games," Jess continued as he banked the fire for the forge. He'd return and make a few more shoes after dinner.

"You're taking the fire engine in? What games?" Mike hurriedly asked with greatly increased interest.

Jess straightened up and stretched, "Yes, the City Council is interested in buying the fire engine and has asked me to show it off Saturday. That was why Jock was here earlier. I'm afraid I don't know the game schedule. I expect there will be apple bobbing, three legged races, and such. There's also a rumor about a baseball game. I know for a fact there will be a fishing tournament, and some competition shooting."

"You'll win the shooting," Mike said, grinning proudly.

"I'd have a very good chance with pistol. Shot gun will be up for grabs and there is a new competitor this year for rifle. She'll be tough to beat," the dark haired cowboy pronounced. "But for me it doesn't matter. I'll be showing off the engine all day so I won't be shooting," he ended, not bothered in the least. "I'm sure another shooting competition will roll around soon enough."

"She?" Mike said aghast, then continued crestfallen, "Oh, Miss Iwona. Jess it's not right for girls to be in shooting tournaments."

Jess laughed and ruffled the boy's hair, "Want me to tell Iwona you said that?" Iwona Vasa Corey and Jess Harper were close friends. Close enough for her to call him 'braciszek.' It had taken Jess six months to find out what the word had meant, Polish not being the most common tongue in Wyoming and Iwona was laughingly unwilling to explain herself. After finding out what it meant, he had confronted her about it, as a beautiful woman calling you "little brother" was never a happy thing. Her smiling answer of, "Because you are short (Iwona was a strapping woman who stood in at just under 6'1"), very dear, and somewhat immature," had left him grumpy for a week. Mort hadn't helped matters by calling him "Shorty" for as long as he was annoyed.

"Oh, that's ok Jess. I guess not," Mike said abashed.

"I guess not too," Jess said with a small laugh and a smile. "Are you joining me?"

"Sure, I'd like to go. Can I put my fishing gear on the fire engine?" Mike answered, pleased.

"Sure, but there's one catch. Well, not really a catch. Call it a warning." Jess smiled again but this time with a serious look to his eyes.

"What's that?" Mike asked with mixed curiosity and suspicion. He knew Jess to be capable of anything.

"Just that you might want to take a bath Friday night. A real bath, 'cause if you stink I'm going to stop on the way to Laramie and hose you down with the fire engine, again," he informed the boy without a smile.

Mike's face took on a belligerent look at the mention of a bath but paled at the very real threat of another fire engine shower. In the end he simply nodded.

 ***.***

Leaving Slim in the street, and with her head throbbing, Lilly Spencer returned to her house and exploded. "How dare Marcy Benson move in on my man!" she stormed to her empty bedroom. She conveniently overlooked the fact that she had dumped Slim months ago. "I'll show that little tramp at the dance," she announced.

Turning, she caught a glimpse of the Woman in the Mirror and stopped. The woman was angry and shook her head. "Lilly, it won't work," she advised sternly.

"Why not? I'm way more woman than that….boy," the irate artist retorted, standing proudly and showing her figure to best advantage in the mirror.

The Mirror Woman nodded but continued, "Oh there is no doubt of that and Slim is still interested in you or else he wouldn't have used the phrase "just friends" to spite you. Unfortunately, that phrase also means he is hurt and sulking." As the Woman in the Mirror went on, she became less angry but no less serious.

"So what is the problem?" Even as she asked, Lilly realized what the problem was so both women answered together. "Time," they chorused.

The Woman in the Mirror continued, "Given a month or two I'm sure you could easily win Slim back. Unfortunately, in two months the world will know you're pregnant and he'll know it isn't his. He'll drop you," she said with finality and a helpless hand gesture.

"Not Slim, not if I cry. Slim is like that," Lilly answered with a light disdain insufficient to hide her uncertainty.

The Mirror Woman gave her a sympathetic look but shook her head. "Are you really sure? You'll be betting everything on that," the woman asked with kindly finality.

"No," Lilly said in her smallest voice. "So, is it time for the backup plan?" she asked.

"Yes. Hey, being the Mayor's wife will be fun. You'll see. He'll have every reason to always help you show your work," the Mirror Woman answered, nodding with a reassuring smile.

Lilly pouted, "What about the dance?" she asked. "I still want to go to the dance but Big Richard won't. It's at the Baptist Church and he won't be welcome there until after the election."

The Mirror Woman swung her hands up and out in a "So what?" gesture, "Why girl, go then. Why not? You're not yet married to Big Richard so you're still welcome. Besides, won't it be fun to show Slim what's he's missing out on?" the Mirror Woman said with sweet malice. She was not at all opposed to petty behavior.

"Yes it will," Lilly said with an answering smile and nod. "Thanks, you always help so much. I have no idea what I would do without you." She then sighed, "You know that you're my only real friend."

"Any time, "The Mirror Woman answered. "Anytime at all, I'm always here."

Lilly considered the dance. Should she go with a date? A beautiful unattached woman going unescorted to a dance at the Baptist church wouldn't raise any eyebrows. In fact, she would be welcomed with open arms. On the other hand, a date would help keep away unwanted dance partners though it would also get in the way of spiting Slim. Perhaps she should get little Richard to take her? Rumor had it that they were courting, but what a laugh that was! He and she shared some interests, but he was far more interested in wearing women's dresses than he was in the women inside them. Yes, Dick would help her and, even better, he would cheerfully disappear on cue.

Recomposed, Lilly was off to the mayor's house. She walked across the town with a smile. She knew Laramie for a provincial dung heap but some of its people were quite nice, in their limited fashion. There was no need to hurt their feelings as they couldn't help being what they were. How she longed for the city, where an artist would be appreciated. Big Richard said he could get her shown in Cheyenne. Then Chicago would be next and that would be the real start. First Chicago, then New York, then Paris! Once seen, her paintings would be her wings to fly around the world.

Lilly half danced as she walked, her mind savoring the delights of the wider world. These flights of fancy were common to her and her half dancing, and the inevitably accompanying merry mood, were seen by others as highly attractive quirks of a beautiful and playful woman. Enroute to the mayor's home, a full dozen people (mostly young men) gave her cordial greetings and no less than three men asked her to the dance. She turned each down, mind elsewhere, though she surprised Raleigh Davis with a quick kiss when she declined his offer. The kiss left him a gratified, though confused, young man.

Mrs. Diddler answered Lilly's knock, "Oh, Miss Spencer, do come in." The words were polite but the tone would have given chill blains to Jack Frost. Betty Diddler neither liked nor approved of Lilly Spencer though she welcomed her diversion of Big Richard's disgustingly animalistic interests. Betty saw her wifely duties as complete with the birth of their son and was of no mind to repeat them. Big Richard was welcome to find 'release' elsewhere as long as he kept it private. Being a politician, that was in keeping with his own agenda. Their arrangement suited Betty admirably; it maintained her, boosted her socially, and she didn't have to perform activities that utterly revolted all proper Victorian ladies.

"Ah Lilly, welcome!" The voice of Mayor Diddler boomed, as he licked his lips with hopeful anticipation. "Come to discuss your upcoming art show? Are your pictures ready?" He intended that talk to turn into a renegotiation for his assistance. Negotiating with Lilly was always delightful.

"Hi Lil," Little Richard added.

"Hi Dickie. Hello Mr. Mayor. Yes, though I first need to talk to Dick for a few minutes. I have four dozen pictures packed and ready to ship," she answered gaily.

"Lets go outside Lil," said the mincing son, much to his father's disappointment and mother's relief. Lilly nodded her agreement and off they went. As expected, Dick was all enthusiastic cooperation. While he loved dancing, he found getting dates for dances a chore and their subsequent expectations worse. Truly, when he suggested 'just being friends,' to a woman, he really meant it.

Escort recruitment accomplished, Lilly went back into the house to speak with Richard. They soon found themselves alone and Lilly broke the news of her pregnancy to him; surprisingly, he was delighted. That was such a tremendous relief that Lilly rewarded him with enthusiastic physicality.

Only after that did they turn to practical matters. The mayor lamented that he was already married and unsure how to carry on from here. Following the ensuing discussion, Big Richard announced that the pregnancy's timing was a blessing. The election was a little over a week away, and soon after the election he would happily divorce Betty and end their sham marriage. He would then marry and maintain Lilly in Cheyenne, as he said that he expected to become the territorial governor within the next two years. When Lilly left it was with a satisfied smile.

As the door closed behind her, Big Dick stopped smiling. "I am ruined," he said to the empty room, shoulders and expression slumping. "I've got to do something fast and I'm not sure what," he mumbled to himself as he went outside to walk and think. There were some hard choices to make and little time in which to make them. While he didn't loathe his wife, she was no more than a prop in the theater of his political career. Going into his marriage he had been convinced that he was getting a passionate beauty. The illusion was brief. After Junior's birth, Betty turned out to be a frigid fraud. Now he had gotten a real-life-passionate-beauty pregnant and there was no way in the world his wife would give him a divorce. Truth to tell, he really wasn't sure he wanted Lilly anyway as she was sometimes a bit odd. He mulled things over as he walked, mechanically glad handing those he met.

Two hours of walking left him tired, sweaty, and decided upon a course of action. One or the other woman had to go. It wasn't a hard choice. Lilly, as a wife and bed partner, was very appealing and she was carrying his child. Betty meant little to him and her properly timed, terribly tragic, demise would generate a sympathy vote to assist his troubled re-election campaign.

Diddler's plan for eliminating Betty was simple enough. The townsfolk had been after him to fund cemetery improvements. Saturday's festivities would now include a cemetery fund raiser whereby local notables would be jailed on silly charges and held until their 'bail' was made, or the following morning. He would set his bail too high to assure that, come dance time, he would be the only one left in the jail. Using an extra set of keys that nobody knew he had, kept in case a minion or political ally needed to make an escape, he would let himself out. He would then eliminate Betty, fake an interrupted burglary, and sneak back into custody. It would be easy.

The first step was to stop in at Councilman Mark Truman's house and discuss the fund raising idea with him. Mark laughed saying that it was a great idea and that he would get it rolling. Together, they set Richard's bail at $100. Everybody else's bail varied from $5 to $10, except for Truman's which was set at $50 (to which he immediately donated $40- the cemetery improvements were his pet project). "I'll bring cards and my harmonica. Every jail should have a harmonica player," Mark laughed as the mayor departed.

Lilly danced home to her dark and quiet house. Four months previously, her mean-tempered, perpetually drunk, and shiftless father had passed from an epileptic seizure. His passing left the home a serenity it had never enjoyed during his life. Neither she, nor anyone else in town, had mourned overmuch at the event. Now she happily lit a lantern, slopped her hogs, fed the chickens, and made herself a simple dinner. After dinner, she brought out her beloved paints and continued her latest work which was of a tornado moving across a gloaming Wyoming countryside. She called it "Death Wind."

The easel was set up in her bedroom and she happily hummed as she worked. "He won't do it you know," the Woman in the Mirror said quietly.

"Divorce Betty? Of course not, I understand that," Lilly answered serenely as she worked on the vortex.

"Then why are you so happy?" the Mirror Woman asked, her tone indicating that she knew the answer already.

"Because it means that he wants me. I know he doesn't have the spunk to eliminate her himself, and that she won't give him a divorce. It means that if she disappears then he is mine. Now I have a reason to proceed." She smiled, adding a little lightning and a horse sailing through the air. "I need to make it a pretty horse, how about Jess Harper's Traveler? A fine idea," she said out loud.

"So, when?" the Woman in the Mirror asked with a predatory smile. "I suggest as soon as possible."

"Yes, the sooner the better because of the baby and to give Richard a chance to do that mourning thing. Saturday night during the dance, I think. The town will be busy and I can slip out without Dick knowing. He's taking me you know. Betty doesn't dance so she'll be at home."

"Where will Richard be?" the Mirror Woman asked with concern.

"I don't know. If he is not home, I'll stab Betty and set the house on fire. It'll all look like an unfortunate accident," Lilly said absently while tightly focusing upon Traveler's detailing.

"Afterwards, you can bring the bereaved family some food and comfort them in their grief. If you and Richard were to subsequently fall in love and marry, that would only be natural wouldn't it?" The Mirror Woman laughed quietly, "This is a good plan Lilly, a very good plan."

Lilly chuckled to herself, as she painted. "I think so too. Oh, drat. I'm out of red."

The Mirror Woman shook her head, "No you're not. You have a spare tube in the wardrobe," she said pointing at the piece of furniture.

Lilly slapped her hand to her forehead, "Oh, that's right. Thanks."

"Any time," the woman replied.

Slim and Gerald Snead, the bank president, reached an amicable agreement over the early repayment of the Sherman ranch mortgage. It would take almost all of the cash from the poker winnings, but they would own the ranch free and clear. It gave Slim a heady feeling.

"You drive a hard bargain Mr. Sherman," the bank president said. He then added with a formal dignity, "but you are quite correct about there being a number of investments available to this bank that would pay a significantly higher rate of return than your mortgage does. When would you like to get together and finalize this transaction?"

Slim thought for a moment, and then he spoke, "I need to talk to my partner, since he is providing most of the cash. Can you have everything together by next Friday?"

The bank president nodded with a formal, yet sincere, smile, "Mr. Sherman, if you go to dinner I can have the papers ready by the time you're finished." A twinkle came to the old man's eyes, "Of course your current circumstances would give me more time than I would usually have."

Slim gave the man a curious look, "What do you mean 'my current circumstances'?"

The man smiled knowingly with a merry glint in his old eyes, "Come, come, Mr. Sherman! You're courting Marcy Benson. How could dinner in town not include her? She would need to get ready, have dinner, you two would court, and then you would walk her home. There would be some, ahem, _absolutely_ _necessary_ delays along the way and…."  
Slim interrupted the explanation with laughter, "Alright, alright. I get it. Is everybody in town watching us?"

The elderly financier smiled serenely and gestured expansively with his arms, "Why Mr. Sherman, there are no secrets in a small town; most especially where courting is concerned. Back to your question, I will stay a little late tonight and the papers will be ready tomorrow morning."

"Mr. Snead, there is no cause to stay late." Slim protested not liking to put the man out without a good reason.

"Mr. Sherman, for the next three nights I welcome any excuse to stay late. Since we possess the largest kitchen in town, my beloved Melissa is hosting the food preparation for the annual Ladies of Laramie preserves sale. Sir, have you ever been present in a house where 60 pints of pickled watermelon rind are being prepared? I do not recommend it. Between that smell, and the constant nattering of all of those lovely ladies, it is enough to drive a man straight out of his house and home." He then added, "Oh and I'll be here auditing the books Saturday night, during the dance, as I am tone deaf and music holds no charm."

Slim grinned, "See you Saturday, then," and the two men shook hands upon the deal.

Slim's walk to the Benson's store was brief and his stay was briefer. There was a note on the door- "Closed early on account of personal business. Open again tomorrow. Sorry, Jock and Marcy." When his knock went unanswered, the thwarted suitor walked around the store to the Benson home and knocked there. There was no response. Disappointed, he left his own note on the house door, collected Alamo, and returned to the ranch.

Two hours later Marcy came back to the store. She had been at Mattie Bradford's house practicing dances. Finding Jock's note on the door, she announced with an annoyed sigh, "Jock, one of us has to be here during business hours. Confound you." She re-opened the store, finished up the day, and went home. Jock did not reappear.

After closing out, Marcy returned home and found Slim's note on the front door. Her response to the second note was stronger, "Jock! I am going to strangle you. You should have been at the store and told him where I was." Slim's note read, "Marcy, I happened to be in town to arrange paying off the mortgage on the ranch. I thought we might go out to dinner to celebrate. I'm sorry we missed each other, but I am looking forward to Saturday. Love, Slim." Re-reading the note, Marcy noticed "Love Slim" which made her a tad mushy and put her in a mood to commute Jock's sentence. By the time Jock returned from fishing, she was over her mad but secured his agreement for him to work the last half of Saturday alone.

 **Chapter 8**

Friday morning Lilly Spencer awoke to find that her permanent headache was accompanied by fierce cramping and nausea. The additional maladies came on with no warning and left almost as abruptly. What was left in their wake was unexpected, messy, and filled the woman with mixed emotions; a heavy and unexpected menstruation. Lilly was no longer pregnant. She spent the day at home, talking with the Woman in the Mirror, and moving about as little as possible. Together they cancelled her plans concerning the mayor's wife. She figured that she would tell Richard Sunday.

Saturday dawned clear, cool, and cloudless with Lilly breathlessly excited. Today's festivities would include her first really big showing and she looked to it as a dress rehearsal for bigger and better things. By 6 a.m. she was arranging her art at the newly finished Laramie town hall and ready to pounce upon any visitor that so much as glanced at her pictures. It would be a long wait as events were not scheduled to start until 10:00 a.m.

While Lilly awaited viewers, Mike Williams reeked so badly that both Jess and Miss Daisy made him ride to town on the back of the fire engine. Despite this precaution they could still smell him. "Daisy, are you sure? I can have pressure up in seven minutes. We'd be done in 12," Jess argued for one last time.

"Jess Harper, you nearly broke his arm last time. No, I will not allow another 'fire engine shower' as you call them. Besides, I'm not sure it would work. It's not like he's dirty. He did a commendable job of washing last night," the elderly woman primly proclaimed as they rolled out of the ranch.

Jess smiled, facing away from the dejected and smelly boy at the other end of the rig. Speaking quietly, "He's growing up Daisy. This is real evidence that he's discovered girls."

Daisy smiled too, facing away, "That became evident last year, at the dance where you made a drunken fool of yourself with Iwona. Remember that?"

Jess blushed, laughed uncomfortably, and replied, "Yeah, I kinda remember. So he's been taken with gals for a while then?"

Daisy nodded, "I think it was his first dance with Amanda Reinhardt that did it. He's been sweet on her ever since. The grapevine told me that they are meeting secretly today." The she added, "Some of his friends still claim girls are toxic."

Jess twitched the reigns as he nodded and observed, "Wanting to impress a girl explains his sneaking in and trying out Slim's new after shave. Well, anyone can drop a bottle and the house should be aired out by the time we get home. I think that he did Slim a favor."

Daisy turned slightly and asked curiously, "How so?"

"Well," Jess said roguishly, "now Slim isn't going to smell like a French House of Joy."

Daisy was silent a moment and then dead panned, "You're quite familiar with those are you Jess Harper?"

"Heavens no Miss Daisy! I know nothing at all about them," the Texan said with assumed innocence. "I just happened to walk by one once and noticed the smell. How could you even think such a thing?" Jess' eyes danced with amusement while Daisy laughed gaily.

Upon arriving in town, Mike immediately bolted to the fishing tournament where he managed to fall into the lake, several times, to no avail. The reek of the aftershave still hung about him like a sickly sweet cloud. Unfortunately that reek was now supplemented by the smell of drying decomposing lake bottom muck. The scents were anything but complimentary. The result was that his competitors allowed him plenty of room to fish while making pointed observations. The low point of the morning came when he spotted Amanda Reinhardt looking for him. He was fortunate to find a bunch of brush to hide in and to subsequently slink off unseen.

Elsewhere in town, Betty Diddler finished the breakfast dishes and found herself alone in her house. Big Richard was at the town hall readying his speech and Little Richard had chased off with his friends. With nothing in particular to be done, Betty found herself available for gossiping. It was a delightful change from her normally full schedule as a proper wife, mother, and Mayoral spouse.

Making the rounds of her friends, she was disappointed to find them busier than she and unavailable. Approaching her sisters' home, she found her favorite niece disconsolate upon the porch.

"Good morning Mandy. Whatever is the matter?" she asked, sitting down beside the girl.

"Hello Auntie Betty, nothing," the girl answered in a woefully dejected voice.

"Rubbish!" Betty said with bright scorn, "you look like your best friend just died, and as I just saw Deborah, I know that isn't the problem. You can tell your Aunt Betty."

Amanda looked up with enough sadness to set a nation to bawling. "Boys are stupid," she announced, indicating that the statement explained everything.

"Yes dear, they are. They are also uncouth and far more trouble than they are worth," Betty answered with smiling sympathy. "Who has performed what stupidity now?" she inquired.

Amanda nodded, "He said we could talk and now he's hiding from me. I hate boys."

Betty shook her head reprovingly, proclaiming, "My dear, you shouldn't go looking for boys. They should come looking for you. That is what is right and proper."

The girl looked down, "I like Mike, Auntie. I thought he liked me. He said he did, but I can't find him and I know he's in town and in the fishing tournament. He came in with Mr. Harper. He's hiding from me. I could tell that by how the other boys snickered when I asked after him." The girl looked woeful indeed.

"Hmmmph." Betty Diddler snorted, thinking, Mike Williams? A boy of literally no family. He's just a fosterling to those two handsome roughneck ranchers; Harper and Sherman. Still, it was but a childhood flirtation and would cause no harm though Sissy and Herman would have a fit if they knew. They had high hopes for their pretty youngest daughter, far higher than as a match to the poor fosterling of two bachelor hardscrabble ranchers.

"We're supposed to talk," Amanda went on, "and then dance tonight. I want to show him my new dress," she said gesturing at the pink Lisle dress that she wore.

"It's a very nice dress, dear," Betty reassured her, "When are you two supposed to meet and talk?" the amused and concerned aunt asked. This sort of drama was something she had witnessed, and experienced at Amandas' age, too many times to count.

"Before the dance, "Amanda said reluctantly.

"Good heavens child! The dance is this evening and it isn't noon yet. Let me tell you something about men and boys: none of them have enough sense to think about things until they're upon them. Now dry your tears, go have fun, and forget for now about Mike Williams. No doubt he'll be along in good time," she reassured her niece and finished saying, "You're far too pretty for him not to be." The last earned her a tentative smile and Amanda excused herself.

Bored and intrigued, Betty decided that a saunter down to the water was in order. The walk to the pond was pleasant, though brief, and she soon came upon the errant Mike forlornly perched upon a stump. She approached the wet, messy, and unhappy young fisherman with a formal, "Good morning Mike Williams, how are you this day?" just prior to letting out a gag. Mike just looked at her mournfully. If he had been a hound he would have howled.

"Merciful heavens child! What have you gotten into?" she said, astounded, while moving up wind and trying not to laugh out loud at the predicament the scamp had gotten himself into. No wonder he was hiding from Mandy.

"I broke Slim's bottle of aftershave on myself and I can't get rid of the smell," he answered quietly while staring intently at the ground.

"So you jumped in the lake to wash it off?" she asked getting a nod. "So now you smell twice as bad."

Mike added, "Lou Kyle said I was the best bear repellent in Wyoming."

Betty pursed her lips so as not to laugh, instead saying primly, "That was most unkind. True, but unkind. Well youngster, I can solve your problem." Mike looked up, hopefully, "but it will cost you," the politicians' wife continued.

Mike became downcast again, "Ma'am, I don't have no money."

"You don't have ANY money," she corrected.

"That's right ma'am, I don't."

Betty Diddler shook her head, then announced in her most business like voice, "I'm not looking for money, youngster. How about this? I will wash your clothes, that is the biggest problem with the smell. You will wash yourself, and then change into some old clothes of Little Richard's. While I wash your clothes you will wash all of my upstairs windows, and do a good job of it. Plus, you will never tell anybody I helped you." That should keep Amanda from knowing I interfered, she thought. "Do we have a deal?"

"Yes ma'am!" Mike all but shouted, leaping up enthusiastically.

"Then off we go to the store to get a nickel's worth of Oscar Diggs Magic Cleaning Solution. I discovered it when Little Richard was a boy and he accidentally doused himself with my best perfume. I think it would de-scent a skunk," she announced with smiling satisfaction.

Mike enthusiastically followed her off. Soon, dressed in Little Richard's worn but sound hand me downs (somewhat tight in the seat) he was energetically washing her windows while Betty deodorized his clothes by soaking them in the cleaning solution. The woman was terribly pleased with herself. The boy was doing an admirable job on the windows and she was going to make her niece happy. She found few things as satisfying as profiting from a good deed.

Back at her art exhibit, Lilly thought happily, "The people around here are not art connoisseurs but they are appreciative in their simplistic way." She had been quite bored, having no visitors until 10 a.m. when a traveling encyclopedia salesman wandered through. Well dressed but average looking, Cyrus McCourt had laughed at her consternation of an encyclopedia salesman being in Laramie. He had countered that it was even more unlikely to find a talented artist of the oil brush here. She found him sophisticated, urbane, educated, and attractive; so unlike the local populace.

It was with disappointment that Lilly heard him announce, "Dear Lady, much as I am enjoying myself, I must away for my business demands it." He gave her a sad but theatrical bow.

"Why is that?" she asked, with a disappointed and flirtatious look.

"An unusual sales opportunity presents itself. The mayor, as well as the rest of your town council, is to be locked in a jail cell. There I will find a truly captive audience for an encyclopedia sales pitch. I must away. Perhaps I may call upon you later?" he added hopefully, startling her by taking her hand and kissing it.

"Better than that Cyrus. There is a dance tonight, and my escort has, uh, disappeared on me. Would you be kind enough to escort me there? I do so love to dance and I am in need of a rescue." she asked hopefully while making enormous eyes at the man and letting him hold onto the recently kissed extremity.

Cyrus McCourt merrily replied, releasing her captive hand, "I would be delighted to. Never let it be said that Cyrus Pygmalion McCourt ever failed a distressed damsel."

Lilly giggled, and brought the recently kissed hand to her bosom, "Pygmalion?" she asked, eyebrows uplifted.

With an unabashed grin, the man shrugged, "Not my fault." Then he departed the art exhibit and made his way to the jail. Lilly made a note to herself to tell Little Richard to disappear, and why. He'd do it cheerfully, provided that she gave him all of the juicy details of both before and after the dance.

The political speeches, which started off the town's festivities, were long and noisy. The speakers were applauded by their supporters and booed by their opponents. There was nothing new said as the topics had been covered many times. Diddler promised good government, freedom, and prosperity. He also took credit for the newly competed territorial jail, located near Laramie, and for the new town hall. Arena Linkous promised an end to the evils of in town drinking, derided the mayor for corruption, and once again relabeled him as "Satans' minion." Everyone was relieved when the speeches were done, an eternity of two hours later.

A bandaged Deputy Cobb, and Mort made the 'charity arrests' as the speech making broke up. All nine (counting Diddler) council members plus half a dozen others in the community (such as Reverend Linkous and Padre Enrique) were arrested with great theatrical fuss, and trooped to the jail. Every prisoner spouted lamentations and/or counter accusations at least as ridiculous as the crimes they were accused of. A typical charge was that applied to Van Buren bearded Councilman Marcus Truman. It was claimed that he was really Sarah Burnhardt in disguise. An un-expected outcome of this was that, for the next six months, Truman was frequently referred to as Councilman Burnhardt. Mark didn't mind, even going so far as to occasionally sign unofficial documents in that manner.

Following the charity arrests, most folks were pleased to see the baseball game begin, although Arena Linkous decried the Arcade Saloon's donation of a keg of beer to the players. It was a long and raucous game with the Virginia Dale team eventually winning 32-5.

Slim Sherman watched the game while laughing and shaking his head. When the game ended, he confronted Jock Benson as that worthy joined the other players in heading towards the saloon. "Jock!" he called out smiling.

"Howdy Slim, tough game," the dirty catcher replied with a grimace. Jock didn't like to lose.  
"So I saw. I don't recommend that you visit the saloon just now," Slim opined.

"Why not?" Jock asked concerned, "Is something wrong there?"

Slim shook his head, "Marcy wants you back in the store. Don't you remember your promise?"

Jock turned sulky and looked ready to protest. Slim went on hurriedly, "Also, she asked me to tell you that she is trying to go help Allie Jones with her dress. Allie says she won't go to the dance without that dress being finished," Alisande Jones was Jock's date.

With a martyred sigh, Jock nodded and dejectedly trudged towards the general store. At least he had gotten to play with the fire engine before the ball game. Slim smiled and went to join Jess; his partner who was still having a grand time showing off the fire engine. Passing the mayor's house he spotted Mike energetically washing upstairs windows and vaguely wondered how that came about. He shrugged, figuring that he would find that out later.

There was a crowd of twenty or so people around the fire engine. Suddenly, there was a "bang" and a geyser of water shot up from the far side of the rig. A startled "Dagnabit" burst from Jess and laughter erupted from the crowd. The Texan appeared, hatless and completely soaked, from around the far side of the boiler. He hastily spun a pair of valves, causing steam to fiercely hiss out of the safety exhaust. Slim barely suppressed his laughter as he cheerfully called out, "Hi Jess, how goes showing off the fire engine?"

"Great!" answered the sodden and grinning cowboy. "I just found out the engine can burst a hose if you crank the pressure up high, then shut down the nozzle and talk for 10 minutes."

An equally soaked 12 year old appeared bearing Jess' sodden hat, "Mr. Jess, you lost your hat," he said handing it back.

Jess touched the top of his head, confirmed that his hat was indeed gone and then took the bedraggled and muddy headpiece. "Thanks Todd," he said absently while rechecking his gauges and hauling out an intact hose.

"Pard, could you go down to the store and get me another 50 lbs of coal?" he asked as he squelched to the other side of the steam hissing fire engine. The crowd shouted forth questions and suggestions as he replaced the burst hose.

"Sure Jess," Slim answered happily, and then he strode off on his errand. Slim figured that Marcy was probably still lecturing Jock about keeping agreements so he would catch her there.

He wasn't disappointed as Marcy was indeed in mid-lecture. At his appearance, her lesson stopped abruptly so that she could fill his coal order and then accompany him in bringing it to Jess. After making the delivery, the happy pair immediately went off on their own private picnic where they earnestly discussed nothing in particular. Marcy completely forgot about helping Allisande Jones hem her dress.

Earlier, it had been a large and raucous procession that made its way to the jail. The procession terminated with Deputy Cobb arresting Mort and tossing him in as well. Tiny but sassy, 13year old Betsy (aka 'Bitsy') Wainwright, was made 'official sheriff' and took her place behind Mort's desk wearing his badge, gun and hat. Bitsy lived up to her nickname and Mort's hat rested around her eyes. This didn't deter her from adding her own brand of sass to the hilarity of the proceedings. Diverse townsfolk came in to heckle the prisoners, while making donations towards their bail.

In a related fund raiser, Iwona Corey had set up two tables just outside of the jail, and vended food with the proceeds going towards bailing out Mort. At 10 cents each, her Perogies and chłodnik had Mort out in less than half an hour. After that she had to change her sign, several times over the course of the day, to free various less popular men. By 4 pm, she was out of food, save for what she had reserved to feed any remaining prisoners, and turned her receipts over to Councilman Truman who thanked her profusely for her help. In the end, the fundraiser had been terribly successful and by evening only the mayor remained jailed.

"Mr. Mayor, I don't think you're getting bailed out today," Mort said.

"I reckon not. Any of your Missus Perogies left?" the mayor answered without looking up from some paperwork that his gopher had delivered.

"Yes, also some of that chlodnik which, I think, is beet soup. She never made that for me before," the sheriff answered cheerfully. "You don't really intend to stay here all night do you?"

The mayor finally looked up, "If I'm not bailed out, I do. I said that I would. It isn't a big deal as Betty's mad at me anyhow," he lied.

Mort looked embarrassed; it was common knowledge that the Diddler marriage wasn't the warmest in town. While he couldn't say that he liked the mayor, Mort was so happy in his new marriage that unhappier liaisons secretly saddened him. He heated up the mayors' perogies, poured the man a beer, and delivered them, plus the last of the cold chlodnik. Then the lawman bid his prisoner good night, locked up the jail, and left.

Big Richard tasted his perogies and let out a happily surprised, "Whoa! Jail food is surprisingly good!" He ate the elk perogies with gusto, thinking "Mrs. Corey is obviously a better cook than Betty." Suspiciously, he considered the chlodnik. "Soup shouldn't be cold, purple, and have green stuff floating in it. Why couldn't the woman cook something like chicken or bean soup?" he announced to the empty cell. Nerving himself, the mayor grasped his spoon and took the plunge. It wasn't long before he had the soup bowl licked clean.

Stomach full, the mayor put aside his paper work and reviewed the day with satisfaction. The speech making had been ineffective and moved nobody. The charity arrests had gone over quite well and brought in considerable funds for upgrading and cleaning up the town cemetery. He took an apathetic satisfaction in that. A new project succeeding, no matter how prosaic, was vaguely satisfying. Unforeseen events in the jail were what really made him smile; election victory was now his.

Like his fellow 'criminals', the mayor hammed up his incarceration from band stand, to jail, and continued to play at it for as long as there was an audience. Three hours after their arrival, as the council discussed buying an encyclopedia for the school, Arena Linkous (plus hangers on) marched into the jail. She started a nasty and jeering tirade on how the council belonged right where it sat. Mort Corey had been released earlier and was out doing his job. 'Sheriff Bitsy' had tried to stand up to her. That sweet snip had reminded the harridan that the prisoners were there raising money for others. They deserved applause rather than abuse. The lady candidate, and her 'evangelical' cronies, had subsequently derided and bullied the youngster into flight.

As the fearful girl backed out of the jail, the hitherto silent traveling salesman, had intervened by drawing the toxic evangelist's attention away from the fleeing youth. "Ma'am, I take it you are running for mayor against Mr. Diddler. Why should I vote for you rather than for him?" the encyclopediast had asked.

The woman had turned towards him and haughtily answered with her normal set of corruption accusations. She then added to it a medley of the mayors' moral short comings and his love of degenerates. With surgical precision, the salesman had coaxed out her views on the 'degenerates.' What he got was a loud and emotionally charged list of who they were and what should be done with them. The list included all purveyors of spirits, gamblers, vagrants, users of crude language, Catholics, Jews, Hispanics, Asians, Indians, Irish, and continued from there. She waxed louder and louder, with more enthusiasm, saying that she would pass ordinances against all of these groups and make Laramie a right and holy community. She only stopped when she noticed the council looking at her dumbfounded. Diddler then laughed, applauding her uproariously, while performing a jig in his cell. "Well spoken, Saint Arena! Well Spoken! Let all the world hear the awesome wholesomeness of your words!" he had trouble choking out the words through his laughter.

"Be still, Minion of Satan!" she had sternly shouted at him in vexation.

He had paused in his jig and brayed at the woman, "Miss Arena, if I was 'Satan's Minion' I would be far too busy to spend my time raising money for our dead while being stuck in here listening to you yap. Be assured that I shall see to it that all of Laramie hears your words, you bigot. Thank you for just handing me the Chinese, Hispanic, and Catholic votes. Not to mention the votes of those other groups you intend to persecute." Resuming his jig, he continued," You had me dead, going into today. However, between your public threats against these groups, and your claims of divine-right-of-fire-engine, I shall win handily! Woohoo!" He neglected mentioning his own abortive attempt to lay claim to the fire engine.

Arena paled at his speech and then slunk out, followers in tow. The imprisoned men erupted in a spontaneous cheer and shouted through the cell window at a passerby to bring some beer down from the Arcade. They were in a mood to celebrate.

It was a smiling Diddler who was the first to turn to McCourt, "Mr. McCourt, I owe you a debt of gratitude. Thank you for getting that harridan to slit her own throat for me." Only the jail bars prevented the oversized mayor from seizing and hugging the encyclopedist.

Cyrus McCourt theatrically bowed saying, "After what she said to that young girl it was a duty, a privilege, and a pleasure, sir."

Diddler smiled and gestured expansively, "You just sold an encyclopedia set."

"Richard, you can't speak for us on buying that for the school. We have to vote on it," Hornbeck chided.

Diddler smilingly shook his head, "Marv, you are right and I'm not. That encyclopedia is for the Diddler household."

There was a moment of silence, "I move we buy TWO sets for the school," bellowed Horace Kellerman, who had not previously spoken on the issue.

"Second," Diddler said.

"A motion is moved and seconded," Hornbeck announced with a smile, "Those for the motion."

"Aye" thundered the men in the cells, whether they were members of the council or not.

"Those opposed?" he next asked.

Birds chirping were his only respondents.

"Motion carried. Mr. McCourt, please put us down for two of your encyclopedias for the school."

Mathias Hicks cleared his throat and spoke next. The owner of the Arcade, though not on the council, was a popular merchant who had likewise been incarcerated for charity. "I'd like one for the Arcade."

Everybody present looked at him like he had grown a second head, "For the saloon?" Councilman Sweeney asked.

"For the saloon. Arena Linkous just got an unexpected education from Mr. McCourt. Maybe a few of my patrons will get one from my encyclopedia," he joked in his relief at the elimination of the threat of Laramie going dry.

Mayor Diddler mused upon his memory of the event with great satisfaction. Today was going spectacularly well. To finish it off perfectly, all he had to do was murder his wife. Then he could start a new life as mayor, husband, and soon to be father. Life was very good.

While the Council learned about encyclopedias, and watched Arena Linkous implode her own candidacy, Betty Diddler learned about Mike Williams. This was the first time she had ever dealt with the boy. She found him endearing thinking, "if he was but of higher station, Amanda's taste in males would be sound. Or at least as sound as any girl who didn't yet realize what non-prizes men were." Eventually she called up to him, "Mike, your clothes are clean and don't smell anymore."

"Thanks ma'am," he yelled then came thundering down the stairs.

Betty Diddler awaited his loud arrival with open amusement. He skidded to a stop in front of her and saw that his clothes were still soaking wet. "They're clean but soaked. Why don't you just hang onto Richard's clothes and pick your clothes up before you go home tonight? He won't miss them as he out grew those years ago. Yours should be dry by then and they will be waiting for you on the porch."

"Sure, thanks again ma'am." He called, romping off as fast as the too tight borrowed pants allowed.

Betty watched him go, sadly reflecting that, "Boys are so delightful. Why did they have to grow up into creatures like Richard?"

The recently freed Laramie town council, minus the still incarcerated mayor Diddler, reconvened their celebration at the town hall and were making merry with a small beer keg generously donated by the visiting encyclopedia salesman. The men were eagerly retelling each other tales of personal successes. Many of the tales were ethically dubious, but they considered them hilarious. Inevitably the topic of Jess Harper's fire engine re-emerged.

"That fire engine is just what Laramie needs," Marvin Hornbeck said, "but I dread negotiating with Sherman. Harper we could talk into selling it for pennies on the dollar. The man is a bumpkin. On the other hand, though a cow flop stomper, Sherman is also a man of business who is the devil's own come the time to sit on the ol' horse trading blanket. He'll make us pay full value."

McCourt pursed his lips, "Tell me about these men, why don't you? Mayhap I can help you here," he suggested.

So they recounted numerous tales, many quite violent, of Jess Harper and Slim Sherman. Some minutes later McCourt nodded soberly, feeling that he had the measure of all the men involved, "I see what you mean. They're dangerous men, but trusting, and Sherman is an able man of books and business. He would be a tough nut for you to better in negotiating. Are both Sherman and Harper here in town now?"

"Yes," Gus Sweeney answered.

"No," Marcus Truman said, "Harper is but, when I got the beer, I saw Sherman take his sweetheart off in a buggy." Numerous crude sallies answered that observation.

"There now!" cried McCourt, "Tis your best opportunity and mayhap your last! I'll bring Harper in and you can negotiate with him while his protector is gone! Let's drink to it!"

With a clinking of steins the men toasted. Cyrus McCourt was then off to round up Jess Harper. The salesman's professional smile left his face as he departed the town hall and was briefly replaced by a calculating look of contempt. "Filthy, wealthy, swine," he thought, "all keen to fleece honest stout hearted men who have accomplished so much and helped so many. By God, Cyrus McCourt won't stand for it. Right enough I've got my knife out, but tis not for skinning this Harper lad. The first step is to find someone else to summon him and then to intervene myself. From the tales, I do believe the sheriff is his friend."

Jess whirled at the noise and barely withheld his attack upon seeing that it was Jock. "Don't sneak up on a man, Jock. Bad things can happen," he said making a motion imitating the holstering of his fire hose.

Jock laughed aloud. Jess was 'under siege' by about 30 Laramie youngsters armed with loaded buckets. The water fight had been going on for nigh an hour with most townsfolk avoiding the combat area at all costs. A goodly chunk of Main Street, about 100 feet across, had been turned into a muddy bog. More than one adult had been caught between bucket and hose discharges and many of these collateral participants were less than amused.

Jess heard a step, and instinctively pivoted left ducking under and away from a dousing of water. He let the hose rip. A giggling, shrieking, and sodden 11 year old girl pelted away from him back to a water trough around the corner.

"You've got that pressure down pretty low Jess. Trouble with the boiler?" Jock asked, concerned. Their earlier demonstrations had used much higher pressures.

"No Jock," Jess answered shaking his head as he menaced a trio of teenagers who were trying to work up the courage to charge him while knowing that whoever was in front would get soaked. "Earlier this week, we blew Mike out of a tree by accident. This is all in fun; we certainly don't want to hurt anybody."

"I can understand that. How did…." Jock was interrupted.

"Truce!" an adult voice called out from around a corner waving a white handkerchief. It was Mort Corey.

"Ok Mort, come forward, but be warned. If I see anybody tries to use you for cover you're going to need a change of clothes," Jess challenged.

"Jess, would I let that happen?" Mort called back innocently.

"Any day of the week and twice on Sundays," Jess retorted, causing Mort to snicker.

"Well not today," Mort walked forward. "Ok kids, the water fight is over. Most of you have to go home to dinner while others have to get ready for the dance. Jess needs to close up the fire engine and meet with the town council. Also, as it is, I think it will take all night for this mud to dry out and there's no need to make it worse. Now scat, the lot of you!" He said, smilingly directing his attention to the younger crowd while making shooing motions with both arms. With disappointed mutterings the youngsters disbursed.

Jess went back to the fire engine, fully opened the pressure relief valve, then started banking the fire in the boiler. "What does the council want, Mort?" he asked as he worked.

"They want to dicker with you over the engine. I can't make you go, but it made for a good excuse to get the youngun's off to where they belonged," the sheriff said with satisfaction while he watched Jess with indifferent curiosity.

"Jess, I'll shut her down. Why don't you change clothes and go talk with the council?" Jock offered eagerly.

Jess eyed him with open amusement, "Alright Jock, but make sure she IS shut down after you get done playing with her." Turning back to Corey, "Are they still in jail?" he asked.

The lawman shook his head, "No, they're in the town hall having a keg party. Only Diddler is still locked up."

The announcement startled Jess, "Dad Gum! What inspired that?" The City Council was a generally sociable body, but they were not renowned for throwing keggers.

"Looks like Arena Linkous stuck her foot in her mouth and threw the election," Mort said shrugging.

"Well, that's good news, as far as it goes," Jess offered as he neither favored a dry Laramie nor the end of gambling there, "but if anybody can seize defeat from the jaws of victory it is Big Dick. Not that he's much of a prize."

"My thoughts too. I'll bet you $5.00 the mayor does something stupid between now and next Saturday," Mort offered.

"Diddler is forever doing stupid things, that's a sucker bet. No thank you," Jess declined, shaking his head.

"See you later Jess," Mort said, departing to continue his rounds.

"Bye Mort, see you at the dance," Jess said turning towards the town hall. Then he paused and asked, "Hey Mort, Iwona is coming to the dance isn't she? I still owe her a sober Tango."

Mort laughed, the memory of his wife's first encounter with Jess always cracked him up. At a church dance, Jess had asked her to dance a Tango with him while he had been a lot less than sober and before knowing that she was engaged. The resulting epic failure in seduction was a favorite memory. "Yes, but she might pass on that Tango," the sheriff cheerfully said while making a big circular motion in front of his belly.

"Oh, right. I forgot," a chagrined Jess responded. Mort laughed as he sauntered off.

A cheerful voice pleasantly sounded to Jess' blind side, "Excuse me Mr. Harper. My name is Cyrus McCourt and I am a salesman. Pray tell sir, how much money do you think you can get for your fire engine?" the dapperly dressed stranger asked as he appeared out of nowhere.

Jess' heart surged with surprise and the Texan was grateful that the man was neither a 15 year old armed with a bucket of water nor a pistolero with a grudge. "Mr. McCourt, the engine cost $2200 in New York. I figure I can hold the council up for $3000," Jess answered though not entirely sure why he was doing so.

The salesman looked on with disapproval writ large upon his face, "My good sir, of course you can, but I can do better. I am sure I can boost it at least to $4000. Let us make a deal. Let me represent you in this and I will receive 10% of all monies over $3000," the man offered.

Jess paused. He instinctively liked McCourt and was ever the man to follow his instincts. "Alright, but I also want to be part of the fire department though I live far enough out that I can't be here every day."

Cyrus pursed his lips and nodded understandingly. "Very well, sir. Are you willing to help train Laramie's men on the use of the beast?"

"I can do that." Jock interjected.

"Sir, I asked Mr. Harper," the salesman replied sharply while giving Jock an unfriendly glance.

Affronted, Jock stilled. Jess shrugged and smiled, "I was assuming that I needed to."

"Then Mr. Harper, come watch me work my magic, for this is what I do!" He reached up and wrapped an arm around the startled cowpoke's shoulders. Then he strode him off towards the town hall. As they went, McCourt talked volubly, gesturing with his free hand all the way. By the time they reached the hall, the pair were singing a risqué Irish bar song, in a round. Entering the Council Chambers, they encountered a half empty beer keg and a well lit Council.

"Mr. Harper, Mr. McCourt! The men of the hour! Have a beer and let's talk fire engines!" an owl eyed Marvin Hornbeck slurred out loudly.

The two men poured for themselves; then let the steins stand untouched. Nobody else present noticed. McCourt stepped to the center of the room and started his sales pitch, "Councilmen, Mr. Harper has asked me to represent him in this matter as I have the gift of words and he would have all things made clear…."

So began what Jess later described as 'the Greatest snow job since the blizzard of '65.' Jess watched raptly as the salesman detailed the history of firefighting, using a plate picture of a Silsby in his encyclopedia, the importance and glory of civic leaders banding together for the common good, and reasonably profitable ways for such leaders to finance such ventures through the fronting of funds. The half blasted, political leaders of Laramie gaped at Cyrus in fascination. Tiberius Downes actually drooled while Marcus Truman wept tears of joyous pride. By the time McCourt finished his pitch, he probably could have gotten their souls, first born children, and full and unquestioned access to their daughter's bed chambers.

"So, brothers on the Laramie Town Council, I propose that for $5500 cash, and the position of trainer/advisor for teaching the valiant firefighters how to use the dangerous but awesome Silsby fire engine (the position to be recompensed at $100/year for no less than five years), due to Mr. Harper, you will receive the beautiful technological wonder sitting outside. Furthermore, I shall provide you with fire hoses and related equipment directly from Silsby with a bare mark up of 15% above documented costs." He produced a prewritten contract where he filled in the specifics, "Are we in agreement my brothers?"

"Aye!" cried the council, stampeding to the table to sign. After Jess signed, it was done.

Only then did McCourt and Harper touch their beers. Jess shook his head and very quietly toasted the other man, "Mr. McCourt, we are indeed fortunate that you were not there to assist at the temptation of Jesus."

"Friend Harper!" Cyrus Pygmalion McCourt answered merrily, but equally quietly, "Well do I know the power of my words! Ne'er would I work such an evil. Say rather, tis a sad pity that I wasn't present at our savior's final trial. For if I was, 'twould have been old Antipas nailed up on that cross and you, my new friend, now owe me $250."

Jess smiled and nodded in answer, "And a drink Cyrus, and a drink." They departed to the saloon and, by the time Cyrus left to escort Lilly to the dance, Jess had ordered an encyclopedia for Mike.

Lilly was tired, crampy, and wishing that the dance was tomorrow. "Why does the most interesting man, ever, have to appear on the day of a dance where I feel awful?" she groused. To top it all off, she had argued with the Woman in the Mirror. The Woman felt she should continue pursuing: the Mayor because he was in the best position to further her art, or Slim. Opposed, Lilly was much more interested in either: Jess Harper or Cyrus McCourt. The conflict had degenerated into name calling with the Woman in the Mirror calling Lilly irresponsible and childish. Lilly retorted that the woman was insecure, crass, and boringly hung up on Slim. At the moment they were not on speaking terms, and Lilly was reduced to using the mirror in her parent's room for brushing her hair.

She had finished her dinner, repacked her paintings, and was awaiting McCourt's arrival when her head pain suddenly multiplied murderously. Lilly had suffered continuous headaches since she was 13. As she got older, intermittent bouts of much more severe pain manifested with increasing frequency. This had been a good week and she had only had one other brief bout. She was relieved when the current one passed after only a few minutes. There were times when it could go on for days. Last year one such bout had lasted a week and she had talked to the doctor. His prognosis had been grim; she had a brain tumor and it would eventually kill her. There was little to do about it save to take a spoonful of laudanum when the pain became unbearable. Fortunately this was not such a bout or she would have had to miss the dance.

"It's beautiful here Slim, I've always loved meadows," Marcy declared as they cleaned up from their picnic.

Slim smiled happily, "Pa used to bring my mother up here, just so they could have some quiet time away from us kids." Then he added, with a grin, "I think that's why I had a number of siblings."

Marcy smiled thinking, If you favor your pa I can understand that, but merrily said, "Why Slim Sherman, are your intentions in bringing me here less than honorable?"

The big rancher blushed, looking down, and stammered, "No, I wasn't…. I mean, you're beautiful and all and…," yikes, If I say yes, I'm a cad. If I say no she'll think that I'm saying she's unattractive. Help! he thought.

She put a hand up over his mouth with a sweet smile, and then blushed, when he kissed her palm. "The answer is 'no' and will stay that way until I marry but I would have been very disappointed if you hadn't tried." She then snuggled into his chest with a happy sigh as the big, confused, man wrapped his arms around her.

Slim hugged her tightly but gently, thinking that there was no understanding women. He hadn't intended to do more than to steal a few kisses from her, but if thinking otherwise made her happy, then so be it. Who was he to say otherwise? Who knew where things might have led? Marcy Benson was a prize catch; ring selection was now something to be considered. "We had better be heading back or we'll be late for the dance," Slim finally said while savoring her closeness.

"Slim, I don't care a fig about the dance." Marcy said quietly, truly she wasn't much of a dancer.

Slim bent his neck and kissed the top of her head, "Want to skip it then?"

"That wouldn't break my heart. How about a long moonlight ride instead? I'm in the mood for stars," the young woman said dreamily.

Suddenly he was too. "So be it," he said with a nod and gentle smile. On the return ride, the way was first lit by a rich russet sunset and then by the lights of the milk way. With one arm around Marcy, Slim reflected that the big open didn't get much better than this.

 **Chapter 9**

The Baptist church was one of Laramie's largest buildings. Even so, the election dance was loud, very crowded and overly warm. The music played was diverse, with a Polka currently bouncing couples all over the room.

To Mike Williams, red headed and freckled Amanda Reinhardt was a beauty beyond mere words. He was just shy of being smitten stupid. Fortunately, the girl was chatty enough for both of them. She was completely engaged; showing off both Mike and her new dress while she commented about the other people present (at least those safely out of earshot).

Mike was determined to impress Amanda with his dancing and this Polka was just the chance. Secret lessons from Miss Daisy had given him both the confidence, and the ability, to bounce around the dance floor with the best present. In Mikes opinion, the best were Jess Harper and Lilly Spencer as her exhausted date was sitting next to the punch trying to recover from three hours of continuous dancing. Suddenly social disaster struck. Mike and Amanda made, yet another, light leap when he missed his landing slightly and recovered by heavily flexing his knees. To Mike's horror, he felt and heard his borrowed trousers split all the way down the seat. "Oh, God!" he thought mortified, quickly guiding Amanda so that his back was to a wall.

"Mandy," he whispered to her as they came to a doorway he knew led to the back door of the church, "I have to duck out, NOW."

Startled, Amanda looked at him and saw that he had turned deathly pale. "What's wrong, Mikey?" she asked quietly, not having heard the dreaded sound of fabric parting above the musical din.

"I just split my pants." He said with his face going from pale to crimson.

Amanda giggled, "Whatya going to do? It's not like you have spare pants."

Mike straightened up, "Yes, I do," he announced.

"In town?" she asked with a skeptically tilted head.

"Yup, I'll duck out and get'em. We'll dance when I get back. Bye!" he said fleeing backwards down the hall that led to the rear of the church.

Amanda watched while thinking, "Mike Williams is super smart. He thought of everything. He was even ready if his pants split. He's the neatest boy around, no matter what Mona Carlisle says." She quickly blew him a kiss as he disappeared through a door. With a smile, she thirstily turned back towards the room and scooted over for a cup of punch. Then she joined Mona, and several other girls, in complaining about the boys they liked.

Mike raced through the church, ducking past couples who had strayed from their chaperones. In moments he was outside and sprinting across Laramie towards the Diddler house. Passing Jock, who was still showing off the fire engine to the townies and cowpokes that had skipped the dance, Mike stuck to the board walk remembering that Main Street was a muddy mire.

It wasn't long before he was on the Diddler's porch. By the light which showed through the curtained front room window, Mike found his clothing dry and neatly folded on the porch swing. Moving into the cover of the shrubbery, he stripped down and put his own clothes on while tossing the borrowed clothing onto the swing. The boy paused a moment to see if he could put his head through the pants tear. He winced when he discovered that he could.

As he finished lacing his shoes, Mike heard the sounds of blows, as well as a muffled scream, come from inside of the house. Then came the crash of shattering glass, and the light coming through the curtained window changed from a steady lamp glow to that of wildly dancing flames.

A very large hooded man slammed open the front door and bolted out of the house into the darkness, passing by an unseen Mike. After the man had run down the street, the boy leapt to the doorway and looked inside. Already the front room was an inferno, and in the center of the room lay the bloodied form of Mrs. Diddler. Braving the doorway flames, the boy ducked inside, and went to the downed woman.

She had been beaten senseless; her eyes were closed and blood oozed from her head. Mike looked about the burning room for something to staunch the blood. Quickly, he grabbed an oversized doily, applied it, and the thin material immediately went crimson. He yanked his belt off and lashed the makeshift bandage into place.

Richard Diddler turned and looked back forlornly at his home. "Curse the woman!" he thought. "She had to flail about and knock over that lamp. Now the house will go up, and along with it most of my wealth." It was then that he saw the boy bandaging his wife. "Oh my god! She's still alive and he saw me," he thought. Panicked, Big Richard lumbered back towards the house. Getting to the porch he paused, fearing the flames, and then he leaped through the doorway.

Hearing the step on the porch, Mike looked up and saw the return of the hulking hooded form. Shouting a brief uncouth phrase, that Jess had unwittingly taught him, he darted away from his lunging assailant. The hooded mayor immediately sprawled over Mrs. Diddler while ineffectively grabbing at the bolting boy.

Mike pelted down the hall and cut left into the dark kitchen. There he slammed the locking bar out of the kitchen door's brackets and threw open the door. He was set to run through, disappearing into the relative safety of the night, when he was stopped by the horrifying thought, if I go; Mrs. Diddler will burn to death.

Heavy footfalls were rapidly approaching, "What to do?" he thought, "The pantry!" in a flash he was across the kitchen and hidden within the Diddler pantry. He kept the door cracked open and waited with a thundering heart. Mike knew that if his pursuer caught him then both he and Mrs. Diddler were as dead as the salt pork that he was standing next to.

The heavy foot falls entered the kitchen and Mike saw the man swearing by the open kitchen door. Immediately the big man went outside and turned to the right. Instantly, Mike was out of the pantry and heading back to the front room. His only plan was to get Mrs. Diddler away from the flames.

It got hotter and harder to breathe as the boy approached the front room. He slipped on a throw rug and found it easier to breathe near the floor, so he stayed stooped over. Mikes eyes were tearing badly by the time he got back to Mrs. Diddler. The woman was lightly coughing, but was otherwise motionless.

Seeing that exiting through the front door was hopeless, he knew that he had to haul her out the kitchen door. He grabbed her by her ankles, heaved, turned away from her and placed her slipper shod feet upon his shoulders. Then he hauled with all of his might. Dragging her towards the kitchen was slow and heavy work. Grunting with the effort, he moved one trudging foot step at a time. The boy randomly thought, "I feel like Beulah, the Beaumont's mule, and Mrs. Diddler is my plow." The heat and bad air didn't make it any easier.

Mike had hauled the woman halfway down the hall when he heard heavy footfalls returning. "Oh my God," his mind raced, "I've got to hide us both." Seeing that he stood next to a door, he grabbed the knob and turned it revealing stairs down to the basement. He plowed through, shutting the door as he went, and found moving down hill to be a lot easier than on the flat. In bare moments he had Betty bounced halfway down the stairs. As an added bonus, the air down here was both cooler and easier to breath.

The heavy footfalls passed the door on their way back to the front room. From there Mike heard, "No! Christ on a Crutch! Where has she gotten to?" Again the heavy footfalls approached. Mike pulled Mrs. Diddler downward, wincing at the sound of her forehead bouncing off each step as they went, but this time he lost his footing on the steep steps. The duo wound up in a heap with Mike inadvertently providing a cushion for the comatose woman's landing. To him, the tumble sounded as loud as a herd of bison charging through the room. The question now was, "Did the sound of the fire cover the noise?" Partly trapped under the hefty woman, and with a heart thundering with fear, Mike frantically tried to free himself as the menacing footfalls approached the door.

Under the twinkling Wyoming sky, Slim and Marcy were rolling slowly back to Laramie. Neither was in a hurry to get there. Marcy sighed happily as she snuggled against Slim's chest. She knew that she was greatly complicating his driving by sitting crosswise in his lap. This, and the fact that Slim didn't find her boyish, given his reaction to her snuggling, hugging, and kissing him, added greatly to her cat-with-the-canary feelings. What a marvelous evening it had been. Marvelous enough that she was having second thoughts about rejecting his earlier romantic overtures.

"Marcy, out of my lap." Slim said, abruptly and tensely.

"Hon?" Marcy answered surprised and not moving. "What's wrong?"

"Look over there. There's a fire in Laramie. We've got to make time," he said pointing.

Marcy saw the flickering of a fire about a mile away. "Maybe they're having a bonfire," she said doubtfully. "They had one last election dance and it would let Jess and Jock show off the fire engine." She slid off of Slim's lap and snuggled up to his side putting an arm around him. Unless she missed her guess, the ride was about to get a lot bumpier.

"I doubt it. There wasn't one scheduled. Yah!" Slim shouted, flicking the reigns and taking the horses up to a trot. The rancher decided that it was too dark to go faster than that, with Marcy on board. If Marcy hadn't been present he'd have rolled in considerably faster.

They rolled quickly through the night. "Slim, I think that's the mayor's house." Marcy finally said as she peered at the light in the darkness.

"I can't tell for sure, but you might be right. You've sharp night eyes Marcy. Pretty ones too." Slim added, though he was tense in his flirtation.

Marcy ignored the flirtation; her concentration was fixed upon the distant structure. "The alarm hasn't been raised yet. Everybody must be asleep or at the dance," she observed.

Slim nodded, "I bet you're right."

The last few minutes they covered without speaking. As they approached the front of the burning house, a bell began ringing frantically. "That's not the normal alarm. Is that the bell on the fire engine?" Marcy asked.

Slim nodded, **"** Yes, I bet your brother is still showing it off. Jess will be at the dance."

Marcy smiled grimly and wryly, "No doubt dancing with that witch Lilly. Better him than you," she added hugging him tightly, "though if Jock's on the engine, Allie Jones is probably fit to be tied. He was supposed to take her."

"A bit late for that now," Slim replied.

Moments later they pulled up to the house with Slim calling out, "Whoa!" He handed Marcy the reins as he hopped off of the buggy. "Hon, here, you might want to go help your brother."

Sliding over to take control of the team, the petite woman fiercely advised "Slim Sherman, you be careful!" She would have liked to stop him from doing whatever he was going to do but she knew better. "How can I help Jock? I don't know how to use that thing," meaning the fire engine.

"No, but you have sense and he doesn't; keep him from running over himself," Slim called back as he trotted towards the rear of the house.

Marcy was frightened for him, but she took a breath and got the horses moving. The best thing she could do for Slim was to get the fire engine, and more men, over here as quickly as possible. It occurred to her that being married to a heroic man was going to gray her early. Well, that's what hair dye is for, she caustically reassured herself while calling out "Yah!" in her high pitched voice.

Slim smiled with proud affection as he heard her move off. "That's my girl! We've no time to waste on scared hissy fits," he thought with satisfaction. Marcy was good 'in the crunch.' That had become apparent, a few years back, when her outlaw father had come to claim her. Rounding the corner of the house, Slim saw that the kitchen door stood open. Good, somebody had gotten out.

"Hello, anybody there?" he called as he ran up. No answer. Frowning and squinting he ran inside; the house was thick with eye watering smoke. "Hello, anybody here? You have to get out. Hello?" There was no answer. He crossed the kitchen, went into the hallway, and turned towards the front. That was the most dangerous area. If somebody needed immediate help they would be there.

He moved forward and spotted a very large figure in the smoke, "Hello," he called. It was about the right size to be the mayor.

Richard Diddler jumped, and then turned towards the shout with a sinking heart. He was spotted after discarding his mask to see better in the smoke. If a team of firemen had come into the house, he was a goner; alibi shot. Once they talked to Betty his life would be over.

"Oh thank God," he thought when he saw it was only the rancher Sherman; too bad for him. "Sherman, seen Betty?" he called out.

Slim moved up next to the mayor, "No mayor. Is she the only one here?"

The mayor shrugged, "Little Richard might be here too. I don't know. I just got here myself, "he said then, "Look at that!" he said excitedly, pointing past Slim. When Slim turned, Diddler swung with his hitherto concealed right hand, which glittered with a set of bloodied brass knuckles.

While not expecting trouble from the mayor, Slim was chock full of adrenaline and "twitchy as a cat" inside the blazing house. Peripherally he caught the looping movement of the mayor's blow and ducked while kicking out with his right boot. The kick caught the mayor in the knee as the knucks grazed the side of Slims head, causing his head to thunder; vision blurring. Half dazed he staggered against the near wall. No doubt a direct hit would have cracked his skull. For his part, Diddler let out a yelp and went down clutching his leg.

"What in the…." Slim exclaimed as he shoved himself away from the wall and cleared his sore head. In a moment, he surged towards the mayor who was staggering to his feet. Feinting with his right, Slim closed and slammed a punch into the mayor's right bicep- a blow so hard it numbed the mayor's arm and temporarily deprived him of the use of his brass knuckles. Then a three punch combination rocked back the man's head and put him down.

Head thundering, Slim looked down at the man and thought blearily, "Now I have to move this deranged elephant. I don't know what that was all about but he is not coming to with those knuckle busters on." Leaning over, he pulled the weapon off of the comatose mayor and threw it down the hall. Then he grabbed the man by his armpits, gave a mighty heave, and drug him towards the kitchen as the fire entered the hallway.

Slim had gone about eight feet when the door to his right opened a foot or so and then slammed shut. "Oh now what?" he thought, "If I grab the door, I'll drop this fat lunatic and I'm not sure I'll be able to lift him again." He settled for shouting at the door, "Whoever is there, come on out. We have to get out of here. The fire is getting really bad." Then he started hauling his mayoral prize again.

The door opened and Mike burst out shouting, "Slim! Look out, there's a big guy running around here attacking….. oh you found him," he ended deflatedly.

"Yeah I guess I did. Get out of here now," the rancher shouted so as to be heard over the fire.

The boy shook his coal dust streaked head, "Mrs. Diddler is hurt down in the basement. You've got to carry her out. She's too big for me," Mike yelled. Then, pointing at the hulk in Slim's hold, he added "I think he beat her up and then set fire to the house!"

Slim nodded, grunting with the pain of the nod, "That must be why he attacked me. He's trying to kill her and I saw him."

"Slim. Hurry, it's getting mighty warm in here," Mike said urgently while hacking from the smoke.

Without thinking Slim dropped the elephantine Diddler, and quickly went down the stairs to fetch the injured woman. Mike was left alone with the comatose mayor. Taking a step back, the boy thought, "What if this guy wakes up?" Then he had a flash of inspiration and charged up the stairway to the second floor where there was a strange old gun on a rack above the mayor's desk. It was as an old short barreled flintlock with a flared muzzle. Next to it hung a powder horn and a bullet pouch. Mike grabbed the lot and ran back down stairs where the mayor was slowly stirring.

Hurriedly, Mike primed the elderly firearm noting that it already had a flint. He paused not, knowing how much powder to put in since he had only used prepared cartridges himself. He dumped in about 1/3 of the powder horn thinking, "That should be plenty." Tearing open the bullet pouch, he saw that the balls were all much smaller than the bore of the gun, and realized that this was a really old shotgun. After tamping the powder, he dumped in about six balls, tamped them, then he put in a paper patch, and tamped that too.

As he finished tamping the paper patch, Diddler surged up and grabbed the gun while sending Mike sprawling with a backhand. "Where's Sherman?" the wobbly man growled.

Mike looked up at the man in scared defiance, blood leaking from his nose, and thinking frantically, "What would Jess do?" his immediate answer was, "Jess would shoot him." Then he derided himself, "Kinda hard to do when he just took your gun from you."

The hurt, frightened, and frustrated mayor repeated himself, "Where is Sherman you little brat?" He cocked and aimed his grandfather's blunderbuss at the boy.

Scared as he was, Mike remained silent. Then the basement door started to open, accompanied by the sound of Slim grunting under the unwieldy load of 220 pounds of inert mayoral wife. Mike immediately shouted, "Slim look out!"

Diddler wheeled about, saw the door opening, jerked the weapon to his shoulder, and fired wildly at the movement. The worn-out, wildly overloaded, and plugged muzzle loader burst. It killed Diddler instantly and showered the basement door with metal shards. Diddler's massive body shielded Mike from the blast.

The impacted door bounced off of Slim, rebounding to the wall. Slim looked down at the obviously dead mayor, shrugged, and continued carrying Mrs. Diddler out of the house. "Come on Mike, let's go." Eyes stinging, and coughing from the smoke, the three left the flaming house as Jock, Jess, and two dozen others manually hauled the engine up to the front. Half of them, including Marcy and Allie, were covered from head to toe in mud.

Jess handed Jock a hose saying, "Go to it. I'll run the engine."

Gleefully Jock grabbed the nozzle and charged towards the front door. Jess waited for him to get there and then charged the line with water. They had discovered that full fire hoses are a lot heavier than empty ones so charging the lines at the last moment made sense. With a whoop, Jock started in on the blaze. A dozen men followed him while the remainder prepared the other hose lay at Jess' direction. The subsequent fire fighting didn't exactly go like a scripted ballet, but the enthusiastic men soon had the fire under control. In the end, front part of the first floor was a loss but the rest of the house was saved.

As Jess bossed the crew, frequently running back and forth to them from the engine, the doctor tended Mrs. Diddler. He had followed the fire engine, figuring that somebody was going to get hurt using that thing. A mud covered Marcy rejoined Slim. "Hi, aren't I cute?" she laughed. "It took all of us to get the engine out of the mud. Jock had it well and truly mired. About half of us slipped and fell at least once. I managed it twice." Her laughter stopped when the fire light showed her Slim's bloodied head, "Slim Sherman, are you alright?"

"I'm ok," he said quietly, making a dismissive gesture.

Shaking her mud splattered head, "You're hurt," she accused, took him by the elbow, and marched him towards her house. Slim went meekly enough. Jess laughed as he saw the tiny woman troop the big man off. "Mike, give me a hand with the engine will you?" he called, thinking, that should keep the boy out of mischief and away from Marcy and Slim.

Mike bounced over and soon he was happily shoveling coal at Jess' direction and telling his foster father the tale of what had happened. Jess was appalled at the story and commended the boy's actions. He succeeded in hiding the fact that those same actions made him want a good stiff drink, or maybe two.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3- See How They Run

 **Chapter 10**

Sunday morning revealed a very sleepy Laramie. Many townsfolk had been up all night dealing with the Diddler fire and the subsequent celebratory drinking (after the fire being put out). This morning, the only one expending any real energy was Arena Linkous . She was having a fit in front of the church sign which now read 'Worst Fractured Baptist Church'. During all of the commotion, the sign prankster had struck again.

Word of Arena's bigoted monologue, greatly expanded in the retelling, had spread throughout the town. It had mobilized many detractors and alienated much of her support. Then Diddler got himself killed so the town found itself with one, highly unpopular, mayoral candidate and it was past the deadline to get any other name printed on the official ballots.

The congregation of the newly re-signed Baptist church had broken up into their usual social cliques and was heatedly discussing the political situation. A large group still favored Arena, several others had ideas for write in candidates, and a vocal minority favored not being involved as a church. The name of "The Worst Fractured Baptist Church" was looking quite appropriate. It is to be noted that the Baptist Church has a long tradition of growth by fission; where church factions get annoyed with each other causing one to pull out and found its own house of worship. That process was well underway in Laramie.

Elsewhere, a badly hung over Town Council was meeting. "A write in candidate! We have to put forth a proper write in candidate and get the word out," Gus Sweeney announced hammering his fat fist down upon the council table and causing everybody around it to wince at the sound. "The Baptists are going to band back together under Arena and we need somebody else, anybody else, who will be reasonable," he finished.

Sitting unobtrusively in a corner, Cyrus McCourt sat placidly observing. Each council member assumed that someone else had invited him to sit in. "'Reasonable' meaning someone you can control," he said so quietly that nobody else could hear him.

"Not father Enrique," Horace Kellerman opined, "I don't think fighting religion with religion is a good idea, though Enrique is partial to tippling a bottle."

Marvin Hornbeck shook his head, "No, that would just stir up the Baptists more. Besides, Enrique would be inhibiting of other activities." He paused, and pronounced with a smile, "Jock Benson."

The suggestion was met with silence and then unanimous smiles. Sweeney seconded the suggestion,"Perfect! He's a man of business. Plus, after last night he is a hero. Better yet, everybody likes him, and we can talk him into anything."

Mathias Hicks, the other non-councilman present, shook his head, "No, Marcy is the businessman there, but otherwise you're right. He does _think_ he's a man of business. Let's get the word out immediately."

Without further adieu, the meeting broke up leaving Cyrus McCourt deep in thought. "Andy can deal with corrupt locals, he's had to often enough, but he doesn't like to. I do believe this town is in need of a strong honest mayor. Ach well, time to get out my Diogenes lamp and find an honest man," he thought as he limped out of the council chambers. He was sore after a night of dancing with that lovely Lilly; he wasn't used to so much exercise as he was sedentary by preference. It was something his wife chided him about whenever he was home.

Slim Sherman was sitting in a rocker, under a blanket, on the Benson porch. He felt fine despite the bandage on his head. Better than fine, actually, despite having had no sleep at all. Marcy playing nurse to him had been delightfully cuddly, though painful. While her virtue was still intact he was convinced that it's loss had been a very near thing. He smiled thinking that he had best visit the jeweler in Cheyenne soon. With his mind made up, he rose to go. Head pulsing, he sat back down. He also remembered that he had some cattle to chase down and he would be out on the range until Wednesday morning. "Fine, Wednesday then," he re-decided.

Marcy and Jock were sleeping inside so Slim quietly folded up his blanket then carefully stood up and left in search of breakfast. While not tired, he was ravenous. To his delight, he found Mike and Jess as he walked down Main Street. By their steps it was obvious that both of them were in equally high spirits.

The rancher merrily called out, "Morning Jess, Mike."

Jess grinned over at him, "Howdy pard, how about some breakfast? My treat. What a night for all of us! I see Marcy patched you up."

Slim laughed, "Yes it was and she did."

Jess smiled, "I sold the fire engine. With some help."

Slim's smile slipped, his partner wasn't near the businessman he was and he feared he had been rooked, "To the town? For how much?" he said thinking, Jess, please say for $3500.

"$5500 less commission," he grinned.

Slim's jaw dropped, "Holy cow! $5500? I was hoping for $3500. $4000 tops." He frowned, "Hmm. How long are they going to take to pay." He could see a thousand year payment schedule, or negative interest, looming.

Jess' grin only increased. "That's why I'm buying breakfast. Mr. Snead was at the end of the bucket brigade, filling the fire truck last night. After we finished, I deposited the towns note of payment. The money is in our account at the bank. It's done," the cowpoke laughed.

Slim shook his head, "Jess, you amaze me. Maybe you should handle all of our horse trading."

Jess shook his head, "Nah, I had help. I said 'less commission' didn't I? A traveling salesman, named McCourt, wandered in and skinned the Council for us. He did it for 10% of everything over $3000. Oh, and I am the official trainer for the fire department at $100/year for five years." Jess laughed again, "I'd have done that for free."

"Well, this McCourt made out well, but he surely earned his fee. Wow." Slim turned his glance upon Mike who had been unusually quiet throughout the exchange. The boy had an idiot grin on his face and appeared to be somewhere else. Slim nodded knowingly and suspected there was a girl involved. Come to think of it, he felt a bit like Mike looked.

"Who is she Mike?" Slim asked quietly causing Jess to laugh once again.

"Huh, what?" Mike said, reappearing from wherever he had been. "Whatya, mean Slim?" he dodged not sure that he wanted to admit to a girl friend.

Jess answered for the boy, "Mandy Reinhardt. She's been giving him the hero treatment after he helped save her favorite aunt."

"Help nothing; he was the one that got her away from a murderer and the fire. I just finished carrying her out," Slim grinned. "Though taking her down into the basement was a desperate move since you couldn't get her back out."

"We were trapped. I couldn't get her out and we needed to hide. I didn't mean to give her the black eyes but her head kinda bounced on the steps as I drug her down," the boy said defensively but still proud.

"I wouldn't worry about that," Jess answered grinning. "I bet she thinks Diddler did it."

Slim shrugged, "If she wasn't so big you would have carried her off like a gentleman instead of bouncing her down the stairs like a ball." Mike laughed at that.

The trio continued on to breakfast, laughing, talking, and generally behaving like the three heroes of the moment that they were. After breakfast, they went to church, where they enjoyed a lot of back slapping by the other men of the town. Somewhere in the confusion, they lost track of Mike for an hour. The boy eventually reappeared, being towed by his ear by a silently surly papa Reinhardt. Slim just grinned as he took custody of the boy. He never liked Reinhardt anyway. After collecting Marcy and Daisy, Slim and company headed back to the ranch.

Monday morning arrived and Marcy Benson was cheerfully up before the dawn. She bounced down to the kitchen, and was stirring up the fire in the Franklin stove, when she heard her brother moving about. "He must be up early to go fishing. That'll put him back in the store at about noon." With a fatalistic sigh, and a mildly put upon smile, she shook her head and acknowledged to herself that she was too indulgent with him.

She tapped on his door, "Morning Jock, want some breakfast?"

The door opened immediately, revealing a fully dressed Jock who smelled like a cigar store inside of a brewery. "Hey Sis," he slurred, "hear the news?"

The young woman instantly reassessed her opinion, "Nope, not up early. How could I think that? Just coming in. Certainly the store is all mine until at least two," she thought shaking her head. "Depends on the news, oh wild one. Slim brought me home kinda late so I crept in, foolishly assuming that you were already asleep. Not out howling at the moon."

"I'm gonna be the next mayor and was not out howling at the moon. I was meeting with the Town Council and discussing campaign strategy," he announced with owlish self importance.

Marcy stared at him for a moment, then blurted out, "You can't be serious!"

"Yup, they asked me to run in place of Diddler the Dead. They're backing me, as a man of business, against Arena Linkous. Being a hero and all they said I should be a shoe in," he finished proudly.

That was when Marcy exploded, "Jock Benson, you are no more a man of business then I'm Abe Lincoln's Cat! Half of the time I run our store while you're out fishing, sleeping, or otherwise not around. Now you want to be mayor and you'll use that as an excuse to NEVER work in the store. Well brother, I have some news for you. Slim Sherman is about to propose to me, and I will say yes, and then be a rancher's wife. How will you support your mayoral self with me out on that ranch and you spending all of your time pretending that you're Richard Diddler?" she fiercely challenged while glaring at him.

Jock looked at her dumbfounded, "When are you marrying Slim?" The rest of what she said seemed to have missed him completely.

Marcy shook her head from side to side and then looked down a little embarrassed, "Well, he hasn't exactly asked me yet, but he's going to. Jock, don't change the subject. You can't be mayor," she decreed returning to the more comfortable part of the conversation.

"Yes I can, and I will." he said shutting his door.

Marcy fumed a moment, shook her head, and then replied, "Oh very well Mr. Mayor. Nobody will vote for you anyway. Just be down at the store this afternoon. I'm going to the 'Ladies of Laramie meeting at one.'"

"Ok Marcy, I'll be there. I promise. G'night," her much put upon and drunken brother grumpily called out through the door.

Gerald Snead, president of the Bank of Laramie, let out a whistle. "That's great news for Laramie, though disruptive. Why do you entrust me with this confidence as opposed to some other notable?" He asked, putting down his doodling pencil.

Cyrus McCourt smiled, "Because Gunther James says that your secret keeping is so trustworthy that you don't even talk in your sleep."

Snead started and loosed a surprised smile, "Gunther? I haven't seen Gunther since the war! We chased after war bond counterfeiters together. I wasn't even sure he was still alive. Where is that rascal and what is is he up to?" the elderly banker asked happily. He and James had once been very close friends; close enough for James to be the best man at Snead's wedding.

"Pittsburgh, working for my cousin Andy. He is well, though his wife Wilma passed, and he took that very hard," McCourt reported.

Snead grimaced, "A shame about Willie, she was a lovely person. They were married a long time. So you picked me on Gunther's recommendation. For what?" he asked curiously, absentmindedly picking up his pencil again.

"I need an intelligent and honest man, to push for a new mayor, to help keep your crooked Town Council from robbing the rest of the locals. You know what's going to happen to property values. Andy doesn't like Robber barons of any ilk, local or imported, as he's a bit of an idealist," McCourt answered.

"I suppose you mean an honest man besides me," the banker smiled.

"Yes sir," McCourt answered without smiling, "as we need you to be available as an independent auditor. This way, when the new mayor suspects wrong doing, you can do the audit."

"Why sir, will he suspect wrong doing?" the banker queried archly.

"Because I'll tell him about it," the more than mere encyclopediaist said with a devilish grin.

"And if I find wrong doing it will trigger a re-election for the council and an honest group can be put in," the banker said nodding.

The salesman nodded. "Yes sir, that's the plan, but first we need an honest man for mayor," McCourt confirmed.

"I have two for you but neither will want the job," Snead answered with a frown.

"Leave that to me, sir. Persuasion is my business," McCourt replied, with complete self confidence.

"I can see that," the banker said, eyeing the master manipulator coldly.

Later that afternoon, in the Snead home, "That concludes old business," Mellissa Snead announced. "There is no new business, unless someone else has something to suggest." The leader of the "Ladies of Laramie" looked expectantly at Mattie Bradford, "Yes Mattie?" The two had prearranged this.

Mattie Bradford spoke up, "Who are we going to support in next Saturday's election? We had supported Mayor Diddler but that isn't much of an option now."

"Arena Linkous is only candidate," Iwona Corey said with her heavy Polish accent, "a bad choice, but only choice." Iwona was a staunch Catholic and Arena was not popular in that portion of the community.

"That is not true Iwona. You're new here so you don't know. Anybody can be voted for, not just the ones on the ballot. The Council is pushing for Jock Benson. He's a very nice man and kind of cute too," put in Magda Sweeney. "He is also a man of business and brave. We all saw him leading the fire fighting at Betty's home."

"He's also a knot head. I should know as he's my brother," Marcy Benson replied strongly while opening her arms wide in a gesture of exasperation. She continued, "I love Jock, but he's neither sensible nor dependable. We need somebody else." This announcement was greeted with mixed tittering and surprise. The surprise came from those who weren't familiar with Marcy and her ongoing grumbling about Jock.

"Then who Marcy?" asked Brenda Abbot.

"If I might address the meeting?" the unmistakably male voice of Gerald Snead came from the back of the room.

"Jerry, you're not a member," Mellissa Snead admonished, waving the bank president's Masonic Lodge gavel at him. While she had helped arrange for the topic to come up, Mrs. Snead had not been privy to her husband's involvement. She strongly felt that the "Ladies of Laramie" was only for Laramie's ladies. We will discuss this later, she silently promised herself.

"Nope, not built to be either," he quipped, "I would just like to say a word, and then I'll leave you to yourselves."

Mellissa sighed as the other ladies tittered. As always, her husband got his way by making others laugh; forget about rules. "You sir, are impossible. Make it brief, or I shall have you on the couch tonight," she threatened him.

Gerald Snead's eyes danced at her word choice. Mel had always been prone to unintentional innuendo. He responded without missing a beat, "Why my dear, I shall absolutely filibuster then! Wherever you wish to 'have me' why I shall not…."

Mellissa cut him off, blushing, as the rest of the room burst into laughter, "Fah, say your piece you impossible man, before I beat you with your own gavel."

"My dear, I am but improbable. You, in your sweetness are the impossible one…." The banker started, then seeing that she wasn't buying it, he switched back to his topic, "Ladies, let me make my thoughts brief. Our current council is, with apologies to some present, of dubious ethics, and has selected a mayoral candidate they can control. Jock's a nice man, but unfocused and malleable. We need a man cut from a different cloth. I have two men to suggest to you. Both are terminally honest, undeniably brave, intelligent, hard working, popular and, since this there will be little time to campaign, well known. I suggest you ladies put forward either Mort Corey, or Slim Sherman. Personally, I favor Slim since his victory will still leave us with an honest sheriff. "

The Missus' Hornbeck and Sweeney turned beet red and started protesting. However, Gerald Snead did as he said he would. He turned upon his heel and left the room. A great hubbub ensued, during which the two councilmen's wives left in huffs. Marcy found herself encircled by her fellows and being asked innumerable questions about Slim. With great pride and enthusiasm she extolled his many talents, virtues, and generally wonderful characteristics. From her speech he could well have been named Saint Sherman the Valiant and Virtuous. Iwona Corey didn't greatly change the tone of things when she chimed in, reminding all present of Slim's courage when their stage was attacked in the summer of the previous year.

"Iwona, you're speaking more favorably of Slim than of your own husband. People will begin to wonder," Sally Rogers said archly, with a raised eyebrow and a challenging smirk. "Mort IS the other man we're considering."

Iwona returned her a hard look, and then she threw her head back and laughed. She stood up. "Just look at my huge belly and you know who I favor!" she said bouncing her eight month along bulge. "But Mort would hate Mayor job so don't consider him. Pick Slim everyone. He is second best man in Laramie, after my Mort."

Mellissa Snead was not diverted by the levity and turned to Marcy, "Would Slim take the job?"

Marcy looked at her squarely, swallowed, and said with a complete conviction that she didn't feel, "Yes he would. He'd be honored," while thinking, "Oh Slim, please don't kill me. Jock as mayor would be a disaster for both us and the town."

In the end, the Ladies of Laramie started a write in campaign, 'Slim Sherman for Mayor,' saddling Marcy with getting the election paperwork in order. She agreed to it, quailing inside. Slim had told her that he would be gone several days, bringing down cattle, and there was no time to wait. She was grateful that she had Slim's signature at the store. His writing was so hard to read that forging it would be easy.

Cyrus McCourt and Gerald Snead sat in his home office, sipping brandy and listening to the ladies plot downstairs. "It's begun," the traveling salesman finally commented with a smile.

"So it has," the banker replied with less confidence, "this might just split the anti-Linkous vote and saddle us with a religious bigot."

McCourt shrugged, "I doubt it, but shall we get to work on making sure that doesn't happen? You and I are going to be busy the next few days. I'll go out to Sherman's place, and recruit him in the morning."

"I'll make some posters and have them put up. A few hand written ones today, and printed ones tomorrow," the banker nodded and said with resignation.

"Is your hand neat enough for today's? I've a fair hand for sign lettering, " McCourt offered.

Gerald Snead nodded, "Oh yes, my sign lettering is quite good. I've practiced on the Church sign for years, and these I won't have to do in the dark."

 **Chapter 11**

Gerald Snead made several signs and ordered printed ones from the newspaper. Cyrus McCourt happily mixed selling Slim Sherman with selling encyclopedias to the locals. The 'Ladies of Laramie' went home to recruit their husbands, and the Laramie Town Council held an emergency meeting.

"Boys, we've got trouble," Gus Sweeney announced, "Magda just stormed home from her 'Ladies' meeting. They're running another write in candidate."

"So?" Councilman Kellerman asked, "Is he another anti-drinking, anti-gambling Puritan?"

"Nope. Worse," Sweeney replied with a grimace.

"Yeah, much worse," Marvin Hornbeck answered. "It's Slim Sherman, and they're running him on an anti-corruption platform. Slim is almighty popular in town, a straight arrow, and the ladies think he's pretty as a picture. We've got trouble."

"How'd this happen?" Kellerman asked leaning forward on the table. "I haven't even seen Sherman in town since church."

"Snead arranged things," Sweeney replied, which was responded to with groans and grumbling from around the table. Gerald Snead had previously thwarted some dubiously ethical council activities that would have turned handsome profits. The Council was of the opinion that the affable banker was the biggest pain in the backside within a hundred miles. Only the man's stranglehold on local credit had saved him from retaliation.

"Curse that snotty, meddling, blue blood," Hornbeck snarled, lightly smacking his left palm down upon the table, "he's always in the way of a businessman turning a dollar."

"Isn't Sherman bedding Jock's sister?" Sweeney asked, trying to move away from complaining and into a useful discussion.

Kellerman said leaning back, "Yes, do you think that Jock could influence her to get him to back out of the race? Women can be awfully persuasive. What could we do to sweeten the notion for her?"

Hornbeck smirked sideways at Kellerman, then chimed in, "Well Horace, you should know about persuasive women." This got a laugh from everyone at the table. Even the embarrassed Kellerman laughed as it was well known that he had a long history of trouble with persuasive women.

As the laughter abated, Sweeney suggested, "Well, let's set Jock to it. At the same time, let's step up campaigning for Jock. Get him out speechifying and shaking hands. If that doesn't work out it still isn't all that bad. If Sherman ties in with Marcy Benson then he ties in with business here in town. We might be able to make him one of us. Suddenly the notion of Slim Sherman running for mayor isn't all that upsetting," Sweeney finished feeling more upbeat.

"Speak for yourself Gus," Marvin Hornbeck grumped glumly. "Slim Sherman has been a straight arrow, and a do gooder, forever. He won't join our business alliance. The mere thought of him running makes my piles hurt."

Later that evening, emotions were running high at the Benson household. "Jock Benson! I will do no such thing," Marcy stood with arms crossed, head held high, and the impression of steam shooting out of both of her ears, " _Slim will make a fine mayor and you know it!"_

Jock looked down at his feet, then less down at his diminutive sister, "Now sis, I'm your brother, and you should help me with this. I'm running against Slim and my being mayor would be good for our business," he plaintively reasoned while uncomfortably shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Marcy held her ground, "Your being mayor will mean I do everything in our store, and you know it. Let me tell you this now. Not only won't I pressure Slim into dropping out, I am the one that nominated him." Her arms went from crossed to hands upon her hips, a sure sign that she was near to going into full rampage mode.

"No!" Jock said standing open mouthed, "What kind of sister are you? Knifing me in the back like that!" he puffed up with fists clenched and his face tight with the betrayal.

Unimpressed, Marcy stood in closer and let fly verbally with enough hand gesturing to do the king of France proud, "What kind of sister? The kind who's your business partner. The kind of sister who takes care of the business while you go gallivanting off to Cheyenne with Jess Harper. The sister you always stick with taking care of everything. That's the sister I am. I am also the sister who will marry Slim Sherman, and if my husband wants to be mayor…" a big if, she thought but she quickly shoved the thought aside, "then by all that's holy I'll not stand in his way!" With that she picked up a poster that had been laying face down upon the kitchen counter. She flipped the poster over and waved it under her brothers nose while continuing, "In fact, I am the sister who is posting this on our fence right this minute!"

Jock read the poster, paled, and then stomped off to his room. Marcy looked at it once again. It wasn't exactly subtle, but she approved of the sentiments:

"Feed Arena to the Lions and don't be a Jock supporter!

Vote for Slim Sherman for Mayor!"

Tuesday morning, found Cyrus McCourt out early and riding into the yard of the Sherman ranch. With one hand on the saddle horn, and a very tender rear end, it was obvious that horseback was not the encyclopediaists element. "Hullo the house!" he called, glad to be at the end of his ride and resolutely not thinking about the ride back.

Mike popped out of the hen house, "Howdy mister," and Jess followed suit by coming out of the barn. The family joke was that when Slim milked you got a bucket of milk and a bucket of foam. When Miss Daisy milked you got a bucket of milk. When Mike milked you got half a bucket of milk, and when Jess milked you got a lot of questionable language. Today was Jess' turn, and he was pleased at the interruption. "Howdy Cyrus! Welcome, but what are you doing out here? On your way to Cheyenne?" Then turning to Mike, "Mike, please go finish the milking while I talk with our guest." Giving Jess a dark look, Mike obediently headed over to the barn.

"Good mornin' to ya Jess!" the sore rider said as he gingerly dismounted and tethered his horse. "No, this is where I was bound for. Tis good to see you, but I'm actually here to have a word with your partner. Is he about?"

Jess shook his head, "Nope, he's moving some cattle, and then is heading straight to Cheyenne. He should be back here Fridayish. He won't buy an encyclopedia from you anyway; I've already ordered one, and a man can only read one at a time."

"Cheyenne? Well that's inconvenient. It really is urgent that he and I speak. Could we go find him?" he said, rubbing his sore rear and giving his mount a forlorn look.

"That is possible, but it might take a while. I can handle any ranch business, we're partners. Why not talk to me?" the Texan asked curiously.

"Jess Harper! Invite that man inside. Breakfast is ready." Miss Daisy interrupted, "Good morning Mr. McCourt. I'm Daisy Cooper."

Cyrus looked over, nodding towards the newly appeared house keeper. "Honored and pleased ma'am, but don't put yourself out on my account. I can wait until you finish your breakfast," Cyrus gallantly answered though the smell of the meal made his mouth water.

Jess clamped a firm hand upon the much smaller man's shoulder, and propelled him towards the house, "Don't be silly Cyrus. By the looks of things you've earned a good breakfast just by riding out here."

Inside, a full-fledged ranch breakfast awaited them all. Ham, eggs, coffee, cold milk (from yesterday), corn bread muffins, goose berry jam, butter, and small antelope steaks were all ready. Miss Daisy was a firm believer that ranchers needed to start with a heavy meal for the long day. Of course, she ended their day the same way….plus desert.

Eating took first priority, and towards the end of the meal McCourt finally spoke up. "Back to your question Jess," Cyrus said while cutting the antelope steak with his fork, "my business with Mr. Sherman isn't truly ranch business. You see, he has been nominated to run for Mayor, and I came out here to talk him into accepting it."

Jess' face went red as he inhaled scrambled egg while starting to laugh. Miss Daisy simply said, "Oh, my!" Mike showed no particular interest as he didn't care who was mayor. The youngster finished and was excused.

"Holy Cow, Slim as mayor! The Council would have kittens! We don't get on very well with that greedy bunch," Jess finally wheezed out.

"So I have gathered from Gerald Snead," Cyrus replied cheerfully, then ate the last bit of his steak.

To Cyrus' surprise, that wiped the smile from Jess' face, and the Texan looked the salesman over carefully. "Who nominated Slim, Cyrus? Obviously not the Council. Nor the Baptist Church. The Ladies of Laramie?"

"Why yes," the encyclopediast said startled at the cowpoke's perception while thinking that things are taking an unforeseen turn. Sherman was supposed to be the brainy one.

"So you and Gerald are hand in glove in this, and you've roped in the ladies. Why?" Jess demanded staring down the visitor without the slightest trace of good humor.

"Jess, remember your manners. This is our guest." Miss Daisy reminded him, startled at his abrupt attitude change.

Jess spared her a glance, and answered soberly, adamant in his suspicion, "Daisy, something is afoot here. Cyrus has no stake in Laramie yet he is in this up to his neck. Gerald is a good old duffer, but he is not usually political, except when he can't resist thwarting the crookedest of the Council's dealings.

Cyrus McCourt looked closely at his two breakfast companions, and made an instant decision. His instincts said they could be trusted and he desperately needed their help as Sherman was not to be found. He nodded, pulled out his wallet, and removed a business card. He handed it to Jess.

Jess read, "Cyrus P. McCourt, Route Surveyer and Supply procurement supervisor, Cheyenne Pacific Rail Road" then he said, "So much for encyclopedias."

Cyrus smiled, "Oh no, I am a seller of those marvelous books as well. They allow me to get a feel for a town without causing pandemonium, and I find selling them fun."

"Ok, a railroad is coming through Laramie. That'll change things," replied Jess.

"Yes Jess, and I agree that your current town leaders are a crooked lot. They would use their positions to play robber baron. My boss prefers to work with honest men, when he can, so I am pushing for the most honest man I can find here; Slim Sherman. The only people here, who know the railroad is coming through, are you two, myself, and Mr. Snead."

"No offense McCourt," Jess replied firmly, "but from what I've heard, railroads are less than caring about the towns they visit. Why are you going to all this trouble?"

"My cousin Andy has the controlling interest in the Cheyenne Pacific. He only dabbles in railroads. Mostly he makes his money supplying their construction. Steel is his biggest business, but his favorite hobby is social justice," Cyrus McCourt shrugged, "he's not your average rich guy."

Jess nodded with pursed lips, "What is 'Cousin Andy's' last name?" he asked though it looked as though he guessed already.

"Carnegie, Andrew Carnegie. His mother is my mother's sister," the salesman said quietly, as if embarrassed.

Jess nodded, satisfied with the announced intentions. The Carnegie name was famous for wealth, power, and philanthropy. He went back to the practicality of Slim being mayor, "As mayor, Slim couldn't stop the Council's actions. He'll have a vote but that's all." Jess said then stopped, "But that's not all is it? He can keep an eye on them, and the budget."

McCourt nodded, "Yes, the budget, Jess. They can't do much without tapping the budget. More importantly, he can call for an outside audit of the budget and town accounts. What will happen if he does that?"

"An honest audit? If the auditor isn't killed, then our Council will flee to Mexico!" Jess laughed. "So you want to get Slim elected, get him to call an audit, and then to stay alive long enough to have it finished. But who can…..oh. Gerald Snead can audit the books under Judge Klink's supervision. Klink won't be a problem; he would love to scalp half of that bunch."

"Yes, though I probably would ask somebody from the territorial treasury to supervise the task. They are very sympathetic to pushing a railroad from Cheyenne to Salt Lake City," Cyrus McCourt explained with a wry smile "In fact, they're making quite a nuisance of themselves trying to increase their own personal fortunes by unsavory means. It appears, however, that they are assuming the wrong route." He paused with an innocent smile, "I can't imagine how that happened."

Jess laughed, at some point there was going to be a lot of crankiness in Cheyenne. "But first you want Slim," Jess commented.

"Yes, we do," McCourt replied nodding.

Jess made a snap decision. His pard would be grumpy but would see the need. "Count him in. Catch him in Cheyenne; he's going there to get an engagement ring. He should be there tomorrow. You haven't a prayer of catching him earlier. He's riding circle and going there cross country."

"I'll have a co-worker talk to him there. I need to stay here to help get him elected," McCourt said nodding.

"Count us in Mr. McCourt," Daisy Cooper said as Jess nodded, "Jess sometimes speaks for Slim when he is away. He can speak for him now, and I will talk to the ladies."

"Good, but that's not all that concerns you. The railroad is going to kill Overland around here," Cyrus continued.

Jess grimaced, "Working the stages has brought in needed cash. We'll miss that money, but we'll get by." He paused and added with pride, "The fact is, we just paid off the place this week."

McCourt smiled, made an expansive gesture, and then pointed with his index finger straight down, "Actually Jess, you'll more than get by. You have the only water between Laramie and Cheyenne. We'd like to put a water tower, track pans, and a coal store, here."

"Which means running track through our land. That won't come cheap, Mr. McCourt. You can run through government land and they'll pay you for it. We won't; having a train run through our herds is not a privilege," the Texan replied getting his back up a bit.

"Mr. Harper," the salesman said formally, "we didn't expect it to be, especially as we would like you and Mr. Sherman to run the tower and procure the coal." He put out a hand, "Pending negotiation, welcome to the Cheyenne Pacific Railroad, Jess. We'll treat you fairly."

"Pending negotiations; that'll have to wait for Slim. This is too big for me to not talk it over with him," Jess said, taking his hand.

"I don't close such deals anyway. You'll be dealing with Lucius Kennedy for that. I would suggest being careful with him, if I were inclined to make suggestions. Which of course I am not," the salesman grinned. "I would be curious to look at your contract, before you sign it. I might make a suggestion or two, strictly as an anonymous and disinterested friend."

Jess shook his head at the 'non-advice and offer of 'help.' He doubted if he could ever figure out when, and if, McCourt was altogether on anybody's side. However, his instincts told him that Cyrus was his friend and he was satisfied with that.

As Cyrus and Jess talked, Sally Vanderark finished dusting Mr. Snead's book shelves. That only left the desk to do. It was boring work, and she didn't much care for the Sneads. However, between their pay, and the money Mr. Sweeney gave her to report to him anything that she found that was interesting, it supported herself and her daughter. That counted for a lot as single-never-married mothers often had to do much less appealing work, especially if men found them unattractive.

Sally found the time spent cleaning up after Mr. Snead the most profitable. He was a doodler and note taker, so interesting things were often to be found on his desk. What she found today about made her heart stop, "God in heaven! A railroad is coming through Laramie," she gasped. "Mr. Sweeney will pay me well to know that." She picked the doodle out of the trash, re-read it, and stashed it in her cleavage. Quickly she finished her work, and then went down stairs where Mrs. Sweeney would be waiting with a grocery list.

"That was quick today, Sally. Are you sure that you've finished everything?" Mellissa Snead asked impassively. She was of the sort that routinely treated social inferiors brusquely.

Eyes dutifully gazing downward, Sally answered, "Yes ma'am. Mr. Gerald was rather tidier than usual," she explained mentally adding, "You snotty witch."

"Very well, here is today's shopping list. Now take that hammer, those tacks, and stick these posters up along the way," the lady of the house blandly ordered.

"Yes ma'am. Anything else ma'am?" she asked politely while leaving out, "You lazy snot."

Mrs. Snead turned away from her, and returned to reading ' _Desperate Remedies_.' "No Sally. Bring back the groceries and then you're done here for the day."

"Thank you ma'am," she said while making a curtsy and then she left.

Sally dutifully put up the posters. Initially she was going to hang them upside down, but saw that they were for that sweet rancher, Slim Sherman, so she hung them properly. What a nice man he was. He always greeted her, and he never looked over her head and pretended that she didn't exist.

Sally put the last sign up on the Sweeney fence then knocked on their back door. It was answered by Mrs. Sweeney who smiled and motioned her in. "Good morning Sally, do come in. Would you like some tea? Gus will be a few minutes as he is suffering from uncooperative pants," Magda Sweeney said archly.

Sally put her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle. "Uncooperative pants," meant that Mr. Sweeney had put on some more weight. He either couldn't button up a pair of pants, or had split them out. The man hated to admit to getting wider, and wore the same pants until it became impossible to pretend they fit. "Thank you ma'am, some tea would be nice." Magda Sweeney fetched and poured tea. Then the two women chatted amiably until Mr. Sweeney thundered down the stairs complaining loudly about pants that shrunk when they were laundered.

"Dear, mind your language," Magda called to him, "Miss Vanderark is here to see you and she has some very exciting news."

The councilman ground to a stop before rounding the corner. "Oh hi Sally, just a minute," he called hurrying back upstairs. A few minutes later he was back with pants that, more or less, fit properly. "So what is this news that it couldn't wait until Friday?" he asked curiously. They usually kept their meetings to once a week to reduce the chance of Sally's getting caught.

"This, sir. Mr. Snead has been doodling again, and I thought you should see this as quickly as possible," she said handing the piece of paper to Sweeney.

"Jehosephat! Well this casts things in a different light. Sally, you are a pearl. A pearl of great price!" he said as he read and re-read:

Cheyenne Pacific Toot Toot

Laramie-Tie Siding-Denver

Chicago-Denver-Cheyenne-Laramie-Salt Lake-San Francisco Sweet

Station/Hotel/Restaurant $$$

Replace Diddler/Clean house

"Thank you sir," Sally answered gratefully, set her cup down and stood up. It was wonderful to be appreciated and the Sweeneys were so very nice. "Now I have to go finish my errands, thank you for the tea Miss Magda."

"Just call me Magda, Sally," Mrs. Sweeney said for probably the thousandth time.

"Please wait, will you Sally? I need to go to my study for a moment," Gus Sweeney asked and once again trundled up the stairs.

"Certainly sir," Sally replied, quite pleased. Whenever he had to go to the study it meant that she'd get a special reward; once as much as $5.00. If she got that much now she would have more than enough to cover the rest of Megan's school expenses for the year.

A minute later he came back, and was intercepted by Mrs. Sweeney in the doorway. Magda insisted on seeing what he had gotten for her. Dissatisfied with what she saw, the elegant woman pointed back the way he had come and whispered fiercely at him. Sally only caught the phrase, "quit being a tightwad" as she shooed him back.

The big man flushed, and retreated upstairs. When he returned, Magda intercepted him again. This time he passed muster and received a kiss on the cheek.

With great dignity, and a minor theatrical flourish, Gus handed Sally three double eagle gold coins while saying, "Thank you, Sally. You really came through this time. "

Sally gasped and clutched her $60 reward. It was the most money she had ever had at one time. "Thank you sir, thank you so very much!"

"Now there is one catch to this. Not one word to anybody about this. Nobody at all. If you don't tell anybody, six months from today, I will give you two more eagles. Agreed?" he asked while wagging a finger with supreme seriousness.

"Yes sir, not a word to anybody. Not one, I promise," she promised, bobbing her head up and down. She immediately left before the Sweeneys could change their minds.

"You will have to eliminate her dear," Magda softly said after their informant left.

The fat man grimaced. "I hope not. She's worked well for us. If I don't have to I won't," Gus Sweeney continued, sighing. "If Sherman sees reason there will be no need."

"Sherman won't see reason," Magda said quietly as she sidled up to her squeamish husband. "He is determined to replace our current council, or he would have talked with you already. You won't be able to scare him off either. The man doesn't fear violence," she added, and after a momentary pause, finished by adding, "Snead had best be dealt with as well."

Grimacing once again, he reluctantly nodded. "You're right my dear, you generally are about such things," he conceded.

She smilingly patted her beloved husband's chubby arm, "That is only natural, dear. It wasn't your papa who was an officer in the czar's Third Department. On the bright side, you'll be able to buy the bank for a song and the coming of the railroad will make those delinquent mortgages, that Snead is so reluctant to foreclose on, quite valuable."

 **Chapter 12**

Cyrus McCourt gingerly stepped off of the shotgun guard's seat. He then helped Miss Daisy out of the stage, as Mike raced out of the other door and off to school. "Mose, you won't regret purchasing that encyclopedia any more than I regret riding the stage back into town," he remarked.

"Well, it will help me read better. I don't have much to read when I'm on the road and it sounds like a durned good set of books," the driver responded. Mose would be halfway to Virginia Dale before he realized that there was no way he could read while driving and wondering what on earth had possessed him to order an encyclopedia.

Miss Daisy went off to visit with some friends awhile campaigning for Slim. Cyrus made a bee line for the telegraph office, where he sent the chief rail crew supervisor a telegram. The message described Sherman and said where he would probably be staying. It then instructed the man to intercept the rancher, tell him of the railroad's plans, and to inform him that his friends had decided to run him for mayor. Further, it requested the rancher's return to Laramie to assist in his campaign. Not knowing if Slim had a sense of humor, McCourt suppressed the almost over powering urge to say that this was only the first step before running for territorial governor.

Deciding that Magda was right about Sherman, Sweeney went to see Mathias Hicks. The saloon owner knew every lowlife and scoundrel for a hundred miles, and the Councilman used him as a go between for getting dirty work done.

"The Plunkett brothers are in town, have no scruples about killing, and love money. They're your ticket," Hicks said without a moment's hesitation.

Sweeney replied almost disinterestly, "Fine Mathias, you know best. They'll have to go to Cheyenne to do the job. Sherman has gone there for supplies of some sort. He probably won't be there long or he won't get any campaigning done before the election."

Hicks nodded and answered, "Sure thing Gus. It also means they won't have to mess with Harper. I'll settle a price with them and pay'em. You can pay me back tonight or tomorrow. Our usual terms?" The price always included a sizable commission.

"Suits me Mathias," Sweeney said as he left.

Hicks frowned and decided to have a back up team ready in case the Plunketts failed. As affable as Sherman was, he was one dangerous cat. The man possessed nine lives, if the assassins failed in Cheyenne, he would have to be eliminated on home turf and he shared that turf with a deadly partner who was going to be downright annoyed.

Jess found politicking for Slim fun. It involved lots of talking, drinking, and good natured roistering while telling everybody what Slim stood for. Furthermore, working with Cyrus was entertaining as that huckster was a wonder to watch. There wasn't a place where Cyrus went that, after 10 minutes, he wasn't treated like some long lost, and beloved relative back from the dead.

Jock was out campaigning as well, but he wasn't having nearly as much fun. He did well in the saloons, where he gave out free drinks as those businesses were sponsoring him, but Jock wasn't the talker Cyrus was. He was also plagued by female hecklers, first courtesy of Arena Linkous' stalwarts and later by the "Ladies of Laramie." In the end, the shop keeper got frustrated and went fishing. By the lake, he found a sad eyed Lilly Spencer, painting. She was surprised to hear he was running for mayor, and he was surprised to hear that she was sad at Diddler's passing; few others were. Both consoled the other's unhappiness as each did what they liked best. When daylight failed, Jock wound up carrying all of her stuff home for her while she was kind enough to carry his stringer of fish.

Wednesday afternoon found Slim Sherman at the Railroad Hotel in Cheyenne. He went up to his room, cleaned up, and dropped off his gear. Returning to the lobby, he was surprised to find that he had a note waiting upon him at the front desk. It read;

Mr. Sherman: I urgently desire to meet with you. Please tell the front desk clerk where, and when, such a meeting would be convenient. Cordially, William Eichorn.

Slim read the note and shrugged as he knew no Eichorns. Turning to the desk clerk he asked, "Who sent this?"

The beetle browed, pimply faced, and gum chewing desk clerk shrugged disinterestedly, "I don't know, he's some guy at the railroad. He said I'd get a tip if I took him a message from you. Whatya got to say?" he asked.

Slim viewed the man with distaste. It was pretty obvious that he had better keep the message simple. On second thought, it would be best to write it down. Slim flipped the message over and wrote; "Mr. Eichorn: will be having dinner at the 'Chuck Wagon' at 7:30 p.m. You are welcome to join me. Sincerely, Slim Sherman." He handed the note to the desk clerk, saying "Here you go, just give that to him."

"Oh, you can write. That makes it easy," the young man grunted happily.

Turning away, Slim thought better about asking the clerk about a jewelry shop. The gumsmacker's rudeness was amazing and the rancher figured any directions he got from him wouldn't take him anyplace desirable. So he jauntily bounced out of the hotel and addressed an expensively dressed, parasol toting young woman that was passing by.

"Excuse me ma'am, I'm in Cheyenne to get an engagement ring. Would you mind pointing me in the direction of a jewelry shop?" he asked with a happy, cheerful smile.

The woman slowly turned. Her expression shifted from haughty annoyance to a coquettish 'wow' as she took in the sight of the head turningly, handsome, blonde rancher. "Why suh," she said in a silky smooth southern drawl, "I would be pleased to take you to one as I am heading in that direction myself."

"Thank you ma'am," Slim said offering her his arm, "Which way?" He disinterestedly saw that she was a lovely dark haired, dark eyed woman in her mid twenties. Her only beauty flaw was a mildly stubborn chin. "I'm Slim Sherman," he announced.

"I am pleased to meet you Mr. Sherman. I am Eliza Bronson," she said with a practiced and winning smile as she took his arm. They chatted merrily and Slim learned that Miss Bronson was a Georgia Bronson accompanying her father on a visit to her cousin, the territorial governor. Furthermore, the lovely lady was kind enough to offer her assistance with ring selection.

"Miss Eliza, I would be so grateful. I want to get Marcy the right ring, and I don't know much about such things," he replied, greatly pleased and mildly embarrassed.

She put him at his ease by patting his arm and archly remarking, "Why Mr. Sherman, most men who do know of such things are not worth having." They entered the shop, which sported a sign saying "Harris' Gem and Jewelry Shop." Dropping his arm she said, "You look at the rings, and after you narrow things down then I'll give you mah opinion. This way you can truly pick the ring. Just remember that the ring you pick will say a bit about you." Eliza then went over to the other end of the shop, where an uncomfortable looking young woman nervously discussed necklaces and broaches with her. A man came out of a back room as Slim approached the glass display counter that contained rings.

Since the shop reeked of decorum, and a man didn't pick out an engagement ring every day, Slim chose to address the man with polite formality,"Hello, my name is Mathew Sherman, and I wish to buy an engagement ring," the rancher said amiably.

The smoothly dressed and oiled man thought "Clod hopper" as he looked at his customer overly impassively. "Very well, sir. What do you have in mind?"

Slim shrugged, "I don't know. Do you have any suggestions?"

The salesman pattered about the solemnity and importance of the occasion and how it's importance needed to be underscored with a token of beauty and permanence; the ring. It was a practiced speech that he said mechanically, not expecting this sale to be more than $5-$10. He felt that cowboys were a waste of his time as they could rarely afford anything but simple bands and he was paid by commission.

Slim didn't much like the man's attitude, and an edge of annoyance crept into the normally tolerant rancher's voice. When the salesman started with simple bands he asked about the addition of ornamental gemstones. This caused the man to smile.

"Begemmed rings are more expensive, of course, but I would be happy to suggest some to you. Multiple gems are the norm, such as this garnet, onyx, and diamond combination," he said pulling three small gems out of boxes. "We would have to make, and affix, the gem mounts but that is easily done."

"Very pretty, what other gems are there?" Slim asked intently.

The salesman blinked hard at the question, "Mr. Sherman, there are hundreds of different gems. I couldn't possibly go over them all. Let us just go over the most common ones shall we?" He said the last sentence with such an emphasis on the word "common," that it set Slim's teeth on edge.

The man went on, "The rules for matching gems are many, and complicated. I shall put together some sets; then you pick what you like." A smile came into the man's voice as he pulled out gems and placed them upon the counter, saying "Here are some of my favorite combinations."

To Slim's eyes, some of the suggested combinations looked odd while others were quite pretty. Being unfamiliar with many of the gems, he asked about them. The salesman would condescendingly identify them, and give him descriptions of what they traditionally symbolized. When they had it narrowed down to six sets, Slim turned and called out; "Miss Eliza, we've reached the point where I could really use your help."

With a smile, Eliza looked up and gave him a nod, "One minute Slim, then I will be finished over here." She turned back to her saleswoman who had acquired a relieved smile.

Slim turned back to his salesman who, inexplicably, had paled and turned greenish during Slim and Eliza's exchange. "Perhaps, Mr. Sherman, we might best start over. Several other, superior, combinations have suddenly occurred to me and….."

Slim's gave the salesman a startled look, "We've put a lot of work into these selections, let's see what Eliza has to say," he said looking back down at the six combinations they had come up with.

Beryl-Iolite-Topaz-Cats eye-Hematite

Hematite-Agate- Garnet

Pearl – Iolite-Garnet

Opal- Iolite-Nuumite-Kyanite

Moonstone- Onyx-Onyx

Beryl – Amber-Amber.

Slim Continued, "Currently I am favoring the Beryl and amber set. I can't say that I care much for the other Beryl set you are so fond of."

"That is part of the fun of jewelry. Everybody has different preferences. The Beryl and Topaz set is quite popular, let me assure you…" the ill looking man started as Eliza arrived.

The glorious brunette seated herself and dulcetly announced, "Let's see what you have found." Then she looked upon the sets. After about 15 seconds she looked up, a depth of rage in her lovely dark eyes fit to give a grizzly pause. "Slim, has this man given you any assistance whatsoever?" she asked with her silky smooth drawl bubbling with anger.

Slim tilted his head and looked at her quizzically. This promised to get very interesting, "Why Eliza, he suggested all of these sets, and many more, saying that gem selection rules were beyond my understanding."

"My good lady, sir, I said nothing of the sort…" the salesman started, beads of sweat appearing upon his forehead.

Eliza picked up her parasol and angrily interrupted, "Slim have you ever shot a man?"

The rancher readied himself to keep the woman from beating the man with the umbrella, she was that worked up. "Yes ma'am. Enforcing the law sometimes works out that way," Slim answered, his look hardening.

Showing a tremendous effort at self control, the woman set her parasol back down, and then spoke, "Then let me assure you that any judge in Georgia would rule it justifiable homicide if you shot this scoundrel, right between the eyes, at this very moment." Turning back to the pale salesman she commanded, "You! Fetch Mr. Harris immediately, and leave the gems. He shall see your suggestions."

"Oliver can't leave the gems out ma'am, store rules. I'll get the owner," the young saleswoman squeaked from across the room.

"Thank you Caroline that will suffice." Eliza answered politely but with her wrath filled gaze never leaving the pallid and sweating salesman. The saleswoman exited in much the same manner as a miner leaving a lit black powder charge.

"Truly ma'am, it was only meant in jest. Harm was neither meant nor done," the oily and sweaty salesman simpered.

Slim gave the man the hairy eyeball and cocked his head. "Perhaps if you will explain the jest to me, taking into account my limited understanding, as I seem to have missed it entirely," he suggested, with a tight little smile that would have given a rattlesnake a case of nerves.

In response, the salesman urred, hmphed, and gave every impression of wanting to disappear through the floor boards.

The Georgian intervened, "Since your tutor is now indisposed, let me explain," Eliza began. "Begemmed engagement rings carry simple sentiments, symbolic of the woman, the relationship, or something central to the couple in the relationship, for the entire world to see. These are read by taking the first letter from each gem's name and seeing what they spell."

A small, thin, well dressed, and balding man entered saying, "Good afternoon sir, Miss Bronson. What Miss Bronson says is quite correct though a few very intricate rings spell out simple sentences. Furthermore, many gems traditionally stand for certain things all on their own. For example, diamonds symbolize purity and eternity. Caroline says there is a problem, how may I assist?" he genially added as he approached. Before he was answered, he glanced down at the gems on the counter and froze. He first went deathly pale, and then scarlet.

Eliza's silky southern voice continued the explanation. "Yes, Mr. Harris, your man has suggested that my friend unknowingly call my cousin, his fiancée, a bitch, a hag, a pig, a cow, and a sheep. I believe that last is a vulgar term for slattern. As the one that recommended this shop, I am truly outraged, and it is my intent to inform my entire circle of our treatment. What sir, have you to say?" She falsely claimed Marcy as kin to solidify her right to raise merry cane, and she was all about tightening the verbal thumbscrews.

With clenched jaw, Slim had a vision of Marcy's hurt reaction at receiving the 'baa' ring. He didn't think, he just flexed his great hands, lunging upon the squeaking and terrified salesman catching him by his, oh so stylish, vest with his left hand. He hoisted the man up nose to nose, while pulling back his right arm for a blow fit to stun a moose. The salesman froze expecting immediate obliteration. A moment later he was shocked upon finding himself ten feet from the rancher, lying on his back, having been tossed away in contempt. Slim slowly turned upon his heal and stalked towards the door saying, "Thank you Eliza, you saved me from a big mistake," meaning the ring selection. He had mixed feelings about not smashing the prankster, but self possession had saved the annoying man at the last possible moment.

Eliza stepped back and gently put a hand up to Slim's shoulder, checking his departure, "Just a moment, Slim. I am not finished," then she turned again upon the jeweler, "Well suh?"

Edgar Harris was shocked at the stupid meanness of his nephew and wished for the size and strength of his irate customer so that he could throw the miscreant through the door, or more preferably, the wall. But at 5'3," and a scant hundred pounds, he was forced to settle for taking him by the ear, leading him away, and booting him out of the shop door saying, "Oliver, you are fired. Go home and tell your mother that her brother will be over later to discuss this." Oliver immediately left, glad to escape without broken bones.

The mortified Harris then turned to address his outraged clients, knowing that the continued viability of his business hung in the balance. Experience told him that Eliza Bronson's threat was dire, and no bluff. "Sir and lady, I am deeply ashamed and sorry for my nephew's unforgivable and unbelievably boorish behavior. I offer you my profound and sincere apology that this, nor anything even vaguely like this, should happen under my roof. You have my solemn word that such an event shall never be repeated, to _any_ customer of mine. I beg both of your forgiveness and indulgence at the turn of events. Might I offer each of you a glass of brandy while we review the situation?"

Eliza nodded haughtily, a gleam of triumph in her eye and Slim let out a breath suggesting the exhalation from the safety valve of Jess' fire engine.

Across the street from the jewelry shop, in front of the Red Bull Saloon, Samuel and Clem Plunkett leaned against the board walk rail as Oliver Farber was booted out by his uncle. They had taken up position there after being told that it was the best jewelry shop in Cheyenne. Since Sherman had come looking for an engagement ring, it seemed the easiest way to find him.

"Shoot Clem, how long does it take a man to buy a ring?" Sam grumbled for the umpteenth time as he fidgeted.

"Heck, with Sherman it looks like all day. Give the man some credit though, it surely didn't take him long to scoop up that fancy Jadestone. She's something aint she? With her on my arm I wouldn't be looking at no engagement ring," Clem responded while not quite drooling.

Oliver crossed to the saloon while giving the dirty plaid shirted Plunkketts a wide berth. He'd had enough of wranglers for one day and, even on the best of days, would have looked askance at these two ratty specimens. The unemployed salesman entered the saloon, to sulk in his beer, before heading home to convince his ma that he had been unjustly fired by his mean and addled uncle.

Three hours later, a tipsy Oliver staggered out and the ratty wranglers, looking even more put out, were still there. It occurred to him that they might be staking out his uncle's shop. He was galvanized upon hearing the red shirted one whisper to the other, " …maybe if we just set fire to it…..".

"Ah," Oliver thought," a chance to get back into Uncle Ed's good graces." He staggered down the street, crossed, and circled around to the shop's back door. He hammered upon it until his irate uncle opened it.

"For the love of Mike!" Edgar Harris started, then stepped outside and shut the door, "Haven't you done enough damage for one day, you numbskull? I've about mended the damage you caused and at no little cost. You showing back up will certainly set Bronson off again. Get out of here."  
"Uncle Ed," Oliver slurred, "I know you're mad, but listen anyway. There are two men, across the street, who have been staking out the store for more than three hours. I just heard one whisper to the other, 'maybe if we set fire to the place.' I just thought you should know," he said with great self satisfaction.

Harris' eyes narrowed and his lips pursed, "Over three hours you say?" he continued when Oliver blearily nodded, "then they want to catch me without customers in the store. My smoothing down Bronson and Sherman has delayed them. Very well, go fetch Marshal Owen for me, and you're rehired though we shall still have words. Also, you can't work until that Bronson witch leaves town."

Oliver nodded, smiling, and then groggily frowned, "Uncle Ed, Owen is shot up, remember? Got shot gunned down at the railroad and is laid up. Mason, the deputy, just rode out for some reason. I don't know when he'll get back."

Edgar Harris let out a snort, "Why the devil do I pay taxes?" he harrumphed. "Ok boy, you're drunk. Go home. I'll handle this." Oliver nodded and trooped off, duty done, re-employed, and pleased to get away from anywhere lead was likely to fly.

The jeweler took a deep breath and made a few quick decisions. Re-entering the formal demonstration parlor, he spoke quickly. "My apologies at the interruption. " Eliza, Slim, and the saleswoman all looked up at him expectantly. Five thousand dollars worth of ring findings and gem sets lay neatly arranged upon a mirror topped table set with drinks.

The jeweler continued with dignity. "A worried citizen just told me that two armed scoundrels have been eyeing my store for over three hours. I fear they have been waiting for your departure to make their move. If I might prevail upon you two gentle souls, I would appreciate your delaying your departure a minute, while I double check my weaponry."

The big rancher frowned and straightened, "Why not send Miss Caroline to fetch the marshal?"Slim asked, "Miss Eliza could accompany her, and I will stay here until he arrives."

"A sensible and generous offer, Mr. Sherman," The jeweler replied with a grimace, "but Marshal Owen is currently indisposed from a shotgun wound and deputy Mason is out on an errand. There is no telling when he will get back."

"Then how about this," Slim returned, "Miss Caroline and Miss Eliza leave. Then we handle this together." Slim liked the jeweler and didn't hold his nephew's actions against him. The man had been generous, honest, and sincere in his atonement. In fact, Slim had mildly frustrated Eliza with his forgiving nature. She was from a long proud line of Georgia Bronson's and Carolina Teach's. Both families were highly successful seafarers long noted for going for the jugular. She just did it genteelly.

From her scared look, Miss Caroline thought any plan that got her out of the action was a good plan. Slim was more concerned with Eliza's look of amused speculation.

Ed Harris smiled with relief, "A most generous offer, sir, and one I am only too happy to accept. You did mention being a lawman."

"At times, though not currently," Slim nodded with a lopsided smile.

The shopkeeper turned to the women, "Good ladies, if I might prevail upon you to depart through the back. Caroline, return to work at ten tomorrow. God willing, I shall see you then."

The saleswoman all but ran for the door, but Eliza was in no rush, dawdling with dignity while twirling her parasol. "Why Mr. Sherman, you do be careful. I would be most distressed if you were to come to harm," she said silkily with a tilted head, coquettish smile, and eyes full of pretended innocence (one of which gave him a slow and saucy wink). Then she was gone.

Upon hearing the back door shut, Slim let out a breath he hadn't been aware that he was holding. Edgar Harris laughed softly, "Mr. Sherman, some advice from a jeweler. Marry your engaged quickly, or that woman will tie you up and carry you off to Georgia. Around town, I've heard tell that both her friends and her enemies call her 'the tigress.'" He went behind the counter and quickly inspected a sawed off double barreled twenty gauge shotgun.

"Good advice, I think," Slim answered, then added ruefully, "but I have to admit that there's a part of me that's tempted to get the rope for her."

With a quirked and knowing smile the jeweler looked up, "Giving in to that temptation might be the biggest mistake you ever made. Then again NOT giving in to that temptation could be the biggest. Truth to tell, I'm not sure which applies though I am certain that one does."

Slim made a face, "I'm glad you're not my father. That's the worst fatherly advice I've ever heard."

Harris shrugged and smiled in amusement, "Hey, I've never had children so I haven't much practice. What say we tend to the task at hand?" Slim nodded his agreement.

The men went to the front of the shop and looked out of the front window. They easily spotted the scruffy Plunketts and discussed the situation. It was decided that Slim would exit the store and cross the street diagonally towards the milliners next to the saloon. When he hit the opposite board walk, Harris would exit the store, and head directly across the street. With luck, the robbers would lose their nerve and depart. Without luck the miscreants would be exposed and in a cross fire.

"Here we go." Slim said, calmly opening the door and stepping out. As he shut the door, he was appalled to see Eliza Bronson come strolling around the far side of the saloon. She saucily sauntered up to the wrangler nearest to her, parasol a twirl, and flirtatiously asked him a question. "Curse the woman," Slim thought. He had known that wink meant trouble.

Both of the men straightened up when Slim exited the shop. Slim kept the nearer one's attention as he started crossing the street. Eliza forced the other to split his attention until the man curtly excused himself and turned towards Slim. "Uh oh," Slim thought, "They're not after the shop, they're after me."

When the man turned, Eliza lowered her parasol and jammed it against the back of his neck. Then she sweetly announced, "It is most impolite to turn your back upon a lady. In fact, most unwise when that lady's parasol was custom designed and produced by Colt."

Clem froze, started to turn, then refroze when she said with dulcet steel, "Sir, desist or _I will_ pull this trigger."

Sam Plunkett whirled at the exchange and went for his pistol. Slim pulled and fired. He put a round into Sam's gun arm just above his elbow, and sent the gunman's pistol flying. Then the blonde rancher retargeted the blushing Clem. "Tarnation Eliza, I thought you were taking cover," Slim called out while moving in.

The dark haired Georgian stepped back, mixing a look of mock surprise with poorly concealed amused excitement, "Why Mathew Sherman, I never said any such thing. What I did say, was that I was deeply troubled for your safety."

Edgar Harris joined them, adding his shotgun to the weaponry covering the dejected gunmen. "I'll lock up," he said, "then let's tote these vermin over to the jail until deputy Mason returns."

"Mr. Harris, why not simply tell me where the Marshall lives? I will fetch his keys and we can lock this pair up immediately," the patrician woman suggested.

The jeweler smiled, "A fine notion Miss Bronson. A very fine notion."

 **Chapter 13**

"They're doing what?" Slim sat at the table, slack jawed, while Eliza Bronson and the railroad man Eichorn, looked on with open amusement. Slim had taken the news of the railroad coming to Laramie in stride. It's desire to negotiate a water stop, on his lake, with pleasure, and the prospect of selling them a right of way with a nod. All of that made good business sense and promised him a very prosperous future. However, he was more than a little taken aback at being run for mayor, without his consent, in a town he didn't live in.

"Why Mathew," Eliza said with a knowing smile, "they're just showing the great respect they hold you in."

Eichorn bit his lower lip, in repressed amusement, at the rancher's discomfiture. He had only met him at dinner but had immediately liked the man. Eliza Bronson he recognized because her father, Ezra Bronson, was the second biggest investor in the Cheyenne Pacific. He had met them previously at business functions and was aware that she already knew the general rail route. Otherwise he wouldn't have informed Sherman of the goings on around Laramie, with her present.

"Just who is trying to make me mayor?" Slim scowled as surprise turned to concentration and annoyance. Two nearly total strangers had come to Cheyenne and stood around for hours waiting to kill him. Even in a life as lively as his, that was not a daily event and he couldn't think of any particular reason for it. His surprise mayoral candidacy seemed an unlikely cause, but compared to everything else, it was downright plausible.

Eichorn ate a bite of his trout, "All I have is a telegram telling me to inform you of your campaign, and of the railroad's doings; so my information is limited. It did say that 'Cyrus McCourt, the Ladies of Laramie, and some locals: Harper, Cooper, Corey, and Snead' were pushing you for election." He paused, "Apparently your agenda is anti-corruption," he added helpfully.

Slim nodded, reassured at who his supporters were but still wondering at how it had come about. Then the rancher shook his head and threw up his hands, "But how? I've never been active in politics. In fact, I have no use for them. The corruption part I understand. The Laramie Councilmen are the greediest men in town. They're the richest too, except for Snead, who is often at odds with them."

"Why Mathew, I expect that it was the 'Ladies of Laramie' though I am seriously shocked at you since you are an engaged man." Eliza playfully opined in an amused and silky voice that evidenced no shock whatsoever.

Amused, Eichorn shook his head as he finished his last bite of trout. Then he spoke, "Mr. Sherman, my mission is done. It has been a delightful evening, but I must depart before Mrs. Eichorn has cause to raise a rumpus." He extended a hand, heavily calloused from the expert use of a double jack hammer; he was not a man who had won his executive position through family connections.

Slim smiled, stood, and shook the iron hard paw, "A pleasure meeting you Will. Assuming everything gets negotiated, I guess I'll see you on my spread bossing a crew."

Eichorn nodded, "Yes, I spend a lot of time in the field. Is the fishing any good in that lake of yours?" Slim nodded and Eichorn continued, "Then you shall certainly see me. The worst day fishing is better than the best day working," then he turned to Eliza, half bowed, and departed.

"What now Mathew?" Eliza Bronson asked while subconsciously making sure that she sat showing Slim her best profile.

Slim chose not to acknowledge her flirtatious overtones. Instead he answered the question straightly. Most men's brains would have started dribbling out of their ears at such close exposure to that stunning profile. However, Slim possessed a loving girlfriend and random strangers who were trying to kill him. This left him, marginally, more interested in the Tigress' shrewdness than her opulent charms.

"What would you suggest Eliza?" he asked puckishly, "I seem to have been unexpectedly handed a new career, as well as a shorter life expectancy."

"Why, I surely don't know. I am a simple southern belle…." she started, but then stopped with an irritated look when Slim laughed.

"Why I declare, Mr. Sherman why do you carry on so?" she asked haughtily with her finely chiseled nose thrust into the air.

Slim picked up his beer, and toasted her, "To you Lady Tigress! A southern belle you are, but I doubt that you were ever simple. No, Eliza, dazzling though you are, I am most interested in tapping your obvious brains."

The Georgian eyed the rancher, surprised that he knew her nickname. She was even more surprised that he openly used it, and nigh shocked that he was more interested in her brains than her beauty. Most of all, she was downright appalled at the level of arousal this man was causing her. That the Yankee was humorous and beautiful had been obvious. Next he turned out to be bold, generous, and brave. Now he's showing signs of both intelligence, and intellectual evenhandedness with women. "If this goes much further I'll either need to make an early evening of it or get a fan," she thought.

With a sigh she dropped all pretenses of frivolous posturing, "Alright Mathew, but you are in greater danger than you know."

Slim smiled ironically as he quizzically tilted his head, "Really, why so? Because two thugs tried to gun me down today? By the way, I gave you a hard time over that. Thank you for your help, but I would have prefered for you to stay safe."

She smiled softly and continued with great seriousness, "Oh that too. No an entirely different danger. You could well meet the same fate as the last man who valued my brains over my beauty."

Intrigued, Slim inquired, "And that was?"

"I married him," she answered softly and then sadly continued, "The cholera took him two years past."

Slim started, "Yikes!" he thought. Quickly he changed the direction of the conversation back to the less combustible topics of politics and assassins. In the end, Slim found his read of the woman had been correct. Beneath the highly comely and genteel exterior lay an incisive and clever mind. Their conversation was both useful and entertaining. It both gave him perspective and helped him to organize his own thoughts. He was in the company of a truly amazing woman. If his heart had not already been taken by Marcy he suspected that he would have given it to the Georgian.

Eventually, and with a reluctant sigh, Eliza made the dreaded pronouncement, "Slim, it grows late and I fear you must now walk me to the governor's house." The regret in her voice was quite real.

A fleeting look of regret crossed Slim's features, then he nodded, saying, "Certainly Eliza. Let me pay for dinner and we shall go." She nodded and finished her glass of champagne. She had started the evening with that glass and drunk only the one. Slim came back a moment later, smiling wryly. "It seems that I've been had. Will took care of the bill on his way out."

Eliza shrugged and smiled, "That was kind and generous of Mr. Eichorn. I expect he will charge it to the railroad as a business expense." Slim chuckled his agreement.

The fall evening was cool as they walked to the governor's mansion. They stopped at the front door. Without thinking, Slim kissed the startled but willing woman. "Why Slim Sherman, you cad, you're an engaged man," she said with a shaky laugh after they broke their extended embrace.

Slim blushed and looked down, he had surprised them both with the impromptu kiss. "Uh, not yet, officially," he said lamely.

Playfully, the southern belle tapped him on the chest with two fingers, "You are in here. Good bye, dear Mathew. I have never pursued another woman's man," not one married or engaged, she mentally amended, "and I will not now." She took a breath and nodded as if coming to an agreement with herself. She then continued, "Remember this though. The ways of the world are wicked, wild, and unpredictable. If misfortune should strike your Marcy, as it has my two departed husbands, know that you have the dearest of friends in Savanna. She shall be most wroth if you fail to come calling." The invitation was half entreaty and half command; Magdalene Eliza Bronson was used to giving orders.

Slim smiled warmly and gently squeezed the hand he held in the cool moon light. "Eliza, you're a very bold woman," Slim answered with respect.

With a merry shake of her head, but a darkness concealed tear on her cheek, the woman replied, "Fortune favors the bold and we Bronsons live and die by that creed. It is why we are the most beloved, and hated, family in all of Georgia."

By the tenseness in her hand, Slim could tell this was important to the woman, so he softly spoke, "Good fortune has always followed me, but if such happens, then I promise to visit Savannah." This time she kissed him, and then she flowed into the mansion.

Slim stood for a long moment after the door closed. With a light and heavy heart, he made his way back to the hotel while wondering about the wide world, and two stunning women in it. For years he had the devils own time with relationships. Yet in the space of a few blazingly short weeks, he had courted and fallen in love with one beauty, and been nearly carried off by a second. Tomorrow morning would find him at the jewelers' shop collecting his ring. Then he would be off to see Marcy. In four days, Eliza would be on a train headed for Savannah, her father's business here was finished. He doubted he would ever see her again, but was grateful for the evening they had shared. What an amazing woman.

For her part, Eliza Bronson checked in with the governor's household staff. She then made her way to the suite that she, her father, and their attendants shared. It was Angela Trudeau who answered the suite door. Angela was her father's nurse. Many years before, she had been Eliza's wet nurse.

"I'm so glad that you're back safe, Missy," the matron said with a relieved smile. "You really shouldn't go unescorted in this savage place."

"I was fine, and for once I had an escort," Eliza smiled sadly, wishing that she was still with that escort. "How is Papa?" she added as she placed her single action, three shot, parasol revolver on the table.

"He wouldn't go to sleep until you returned and gave him his good night kiss. His sundowner's is bad tonight. Missy, I think this is his last trip," the nurse finished slowly shaking her head.

"I think so too. Even during the day his mind is getting weaker. We'll keep him safe at home in the future. Agents and lawyers will do his future traveling," Eliza added, peeling off her gloves and placing them by the firearm.

A maid put away the discarded items while the two continued talking. "Praise God he gave you his power of attorney when he felt his mind weakening. Not many men would have trusted a daughter in that way," the nurse sighed.

Eliza nodded, "I have a little more business to attend to before turning in. Send in Carter, I want to dictate a letter after I tuck papa in." The nurse nodded compliance to her favorite, and last, lamb. She had wet nursed Eliza and all three of her brothers. Unfortunately the boys were gone; felled at Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, and some obscure place in Virginia called Hanging Rock.

Eliza went in to attend to her father. His largely vacant blue eyes recognized her; they did even in his worst bouts. With a smile she gave him his good night kiss. In return, he smiled, rolled over, and fell asleep almost immediately. In the morning he wouldn't remember this, and would publically give the impression of being a dignified, if standoffish, man of business that refused to make snap decisions. Though it usually annoyed his petitioners, he always took a day to think things through. In reality, he discussed things with Eliza and she made the decisions. It had been so for a year and a half now.

She returned to the central room of the suite where Carter O'Dell, her father's secretary of 35 years, waited. He was more like a dear elderly cousin than an employee. "What do you need, Tiger?" he asked with a tired smile. His years were telling and he would be glad to get to bed.

"Just a quick letter Carter, but I want it out by messenger tomorrow." She said and Carter nodded, pad at the ready. She dictated the letter to Lucius Kennedy, who was handling the railroad's negotiations for right of way, and facilities between Cheyenne and Laramie. It instructed him that Slim Sherman was now a fellow railroad investor. All efforts to acquire his water rights and property, as opposed to purchasing the water by volume used and leasing a simple right of way for the tracks and structures, were to desist. She also informed him that generous prices were to be paid. Of course, all other such efforts were still left to Kennedy's discretion.

After Carter left, Eliza made her way to her bedroom and made ready for bed. It was a luxurious bed and she snuggled down into it wishing that it wasn't otherwise empty. She rarely wished that as she was an active sleeper and, flirtatious nature to the contrary, not a notably lusty woman. In fact, in her 25 years she had bedded only her husbands. Tonight was different, and it was hard for her not to wish that the unknown Marcy Benson would be hit by an errant bolt of lightning. Temptation to the contrary, she decided to leave similarly terminal events in God's hands as Slim was smart enough to detect any involvement of her own. That would cost her his good opinion.

It was quite late when Ralph Rizzo quietly rode back into town and over to the jail. He was leading deputy Mason's grey gelding as that gent didn't need it any more. Decoying the man out of town had been easy enough; a few shots into the Holbrook farm house had caused them to send their grandson out the back and into town for the law. The law never quite got there.

He dismounted and tethered the horses. Moments later he was in the dark building whistling. He spotted and lit a lamp. Proceeding to the back, the murderer opened the door into the cell area, and called out "Evening Rufus." Grumbling came from the nearer cell where the Plunketts complained about being awakened.

"Howdy Partner," Rufus Redding happily called out from the far cell, careful to not name the man.

"Ready? Shoulder good enough to ride?" Rizzo asked as he unlocked the cell.

This brought new noises from the other cell, "Hey! Let us out too. Please let us out."

"A man doesn't ride on his shoulder. I'll be fine," Rufus growled walking out.

The pair left the other two jail birds and walked into the front of the jail, "Let me dig up my stuff." Rufus hunted around and found his belongings. He immediately turned and handed Rizzo $75. "Money well earned. Thanks. It wouldn't have done me any good where they were sending me," he said while deftly belting on his gear with one hand.

Rizzo shook his head, "No problem. Let's go."

"I just had a thought, hold up a second." Ruthless took out the belongings of his cell mates, keeping their weapons and splitting three quarters of their money with Rizzo. "Let's set loose a few decoys. That'll split pursuit after us. I'm leaving them some of their money so that they'll get a little further."

"Pursuit after you," Rizzo corrected him.

"Not joining me?" Ruthless asked, turning to half face his rescuer.

"Nope, we part ways once we hit that door, and those two look too stupid to be decoys," Rizzo added jerking a thumb in the general direction of the Plunketts.

"You can't be too stupid to be a decoy," Redding countered with somewhat less than total assurance.

Rizzo shrugged indifferently, "Suit yourself."

The Plunkett's were overjoyed to be let out, ticked off when they weren't given all of their belongings, and quickly silenced when they found their own firearms pointed at them.

"Bye partner," Rizzo said as he exited and mounted his horse.

"See ya amigo," Redding replied, taking Mason's grey.

"Bye," Clem Plunkett said to them as they left. He was a sociable sort.

"Shut up, stupid." Redding and Rizzo replied simultaneously. They left in opposite directions. Rizzo had decided to head south to Denver. Redding was trying for Deadwood, in the Dakota Territories.

Clem and Sam looked at each other. Clem went to the office's rifle rack and got a Winchester and ammunition. Sam, effectively one armed as his gun arm was in a plaster cast, hunted around and eventually found a poorly maintained cap and ball pistol. As they left the jail, Clem asked "Where to now?" They both knew that Sam was the brainier one.

"We had better run for it, so we need horses. The livery?" he suggested, turning in that direction.

Clem joined him. "Ok, the 'Happy Heifer' is next to the livery and it is open all night. Let's get some beer and breakfast," Clem suggested.

Sam showed that 'brainier' is a relative term with his answer, "Ok. Some bacon and eggs would go down nice.

Slim was up early as his evening with Eliza, and imminent journey home to Laramie, had him too wound up to sleep very well. He figured he might as well get up, have an early breakfast, pick up the engagement ring, and leave.

Well fed and cheerful, he walked through the open door of the livery at 6:30. Two steps in, the big rancher heard familiar voices talking; voices belonging to the previous day's would be assassins. Putting down his saddle bags, Slim slipped a cartridge into the empty chamber of his rifle, the magazine being already full. He crept forward, listening.

"Hurry up with that message Clem, then help me here. Saddling a horse one handed is a pain," Sam Plunkett loudly griped.

"Shoot Sam, you write this. You know I'm no good at spellin'" Clem answered.

"I can't. My gun arm is in a cast and that's my writin' hand too." He grumbled and then growled, "Carnsound you horse! Stand still, dag nabbit!"

"Oh, that's right. So I gotta write the telegram. Uh, howdya spell 'Arcade'?" Clem asked.

"Why ya need that word?" Sam asked. The question was accompanied by the sound of a saddle blanket being put on a horse and the horse shaking it off, "Curse you ya nutless thing!" Sam continued.

"The address. Matt Hicks, Arcade Saloon, Laramie. So he'll get the message," Clem answered.

"Oh, yeah. Arcade – O-U-R-K-A-T-E," Sam spelled out.

"Thanks," Clem answered, brow furled in concentration.

"Need saloon?" Sam offered as he continued trying to saddle somebody else's uncooperative pinto that was making a game of trying to step on his feet.

"Nah, I know saloon." Clem replied. "We can't say we was shooting Sherman or the telegraph operator will have the law after us before we get outta town. How about this for the message? 'Hickey- Sam bit by your wolf and has busted arm. Stop. We quit. Stop. Off to Canada. Stop. Clem."

"That works. He knows we're gone and didn't kill Sherman. We owe him that much," Sam said with a grimace.

"Why don't we just go back to Laramie and tell him?" Clem asked curiously.

"Because Corey will lock us up on sight. We aint the only ones as can use a telegraph," Sam answered shortly. Then he cursed in pain and slapped the horse. The pinto had just scored on his left foot.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Clem said chastened. "I didn't think of that."

"Good morning boys," Slim announced as he stepped around the corner. "Hands in the air and no fast moves, or I'll drill the pair of you."

The Plunkett brothers looked up, swore, and raised their hands. "Clem, move to the wall really slowly, and don't even look at that rifle." The rifle in question was leaning against a rail behind the man and the otherwise unarmed shootist edged his way away from it. "Now face the wall." Slim ordered, and Clem docily complied. "Now Sam, toss that pistol in your pants to the ground and kick it away, then join your brother." Sam did so.

Slim moved in and recovered the firearms. It was then that Slim noticed the beer stench surrounding the pair, and that they were both a trifle wobbly. An idea suggested itself.

"Ok boys; lower your arms if you like, but no sudden moves. It seems to me you two should be back at the jail. Since no alarm has been raised, I hope you haven't done anything to Deputy Mason." He phrased the statement as a half question. The duo just looked at him stupidly as they lowered their arms.

He changed tactics, "Where is Redding?" he asked.

That got a response, "That thief stole our guns and money. Then him and his buddy rode out of town," Sam replied.

"If he stole your money, how did you have your beer party," Slim asked curiously, just to keep them talking.

"He only took most of our money, he left us some." Clem answered. "I don't know why," he added.

Slim nodded, "So you could run and create trails for a posse to follow," Slim answered. "He was using you two as decoys. How long ago did he ride off?"

"Hours ago," Sam said.

"Why didn't you boys take off?" Slim asked curiously.

"We was going to," Clem answered, "but we stopped for some grub and a few beers. Then Miss Gladys and Miss Sylvia wanted to dance and all. Then we was entertained by them. A coupla times. Time just got away. We was leaving when you come in."

Slim smiled and nodded, "Yeah, time can get away from you when you are, ahem, 'being entertained' by their likes. I'm right glad you boys had a good time. It'll probably be your last seeing as how you're going to hang."

The drunken pair just stared at him. "Hang? We didn't hurt nobody. Heck, I only pulled when your lady friend said she'd shoot my brother. Then you shot me," Sam said.

"Robbery and arson. You'd only get a few years for trying to rob the jewelry store but you were set to burn it down and it is also a residence. Burning down a residence, in Cheyenne, means you'll swing," Slim announced matter-of-factly.

"Rob and burn what?" Clem asked dumbfounded.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked at the same time, equally confused.

"Why your robbing and burning the jewelry store. That's what Eliza and I stopped you from doing yesterday. You stood outside of it for hours, casing the place, and one of the locals heard you talk about burning it. That's when he came over, and warned us," Slim said, watching them intently while thinking, "Come on, take the bait. Owen said we really didn't have enough evidence to get you on anything but a few trivial ordinances. Say something useful you two drunken boneheads."

"We wasn't robbing the store, was we Sam!" Clem said wide eyed with horrified and innocent conviction.

"Shoot no! Though Clem, you did suggest burning it down," Sam put in with great concern.

Clem paused and slowly thought. "Yeah, but I was only suggesting it and only because Sherman was taking so blamed long getting a ring. I didn't mean it. You know that." he said to his brother.

"Yeah I know, but it does sound bad if somebody as heard it didn't know you," Sam allowed with a nod.

"Yeah, I guess it does," Clem agreed, crestfallen.

Slim put surprise into his voice, "You boys mean to say you weren't there to burn and rob the place?"

"Heck no Sherman, we was just there to shoot you. Hanging us for arson just wouldn't be right," Clem said, shaking his head from side to side.

"Not hardly fair at all. We weren't there to bother nobody. We surely didn't mean to rob and burn the place. We was just gonna kill you and ride away, peaceable like," he explained emphatically.

Slim frowned theatrically, thinking "Good Lord, you two are morons. I've got you to admit what you were about. Now let's see if you're stupid enough to say why," and saying, "Boys, I find that hard to believe. You were there a long time just looking at the place. No jury is going to believe you."

"That was just because you was taking forever in there. How long does it take a man to pick a ring anyway?" Sam belligerently challenged the rancher.

"It can take a long time, if he wants to get it right. Boys, you don't know me and I don't know you. Why would you want to kill me? That just doesn't make any sense at all. Nope, you had no reason to kill me so nobody is going to believe you. Sorry, you're going to hang," Slim judged verbally while mentally wincing at the stupidity of his own reasoning. He was glad Jess wasn't present as his friend would have been merciless about it later.

"Sam, we're gonna hang for something we didn't do!" Clem blubbered.

"Sherman we had us a good reason!" Sam said belligerently, he paused, "if I can convince you, will you help us convince the others we just meant to kill you? I mean, we didn't mean no real harm."

Slim appeared to agree reluctantly, "That will take some convincing boys. Go ahead and try."

With a triumphant look, Sam spouted, "It was Hicks. He hired us to kill you," while Clem nodded through his tears and running nose.

"You've got to be kidding. Mathias Hicks? He's got no cause for that," Slim said, shaking his head and voicing doubts he didn't really feel. Slim knew that Hicks was tied to all of the low lifes around Laramie. "As a matter of fact, he and I are on good terms," the rancher added.

"He did so!" Sam loudly insisted, continuing, "He hires muscle for others and sends them out. We saw him with Sweeney, the fat councilman, and we was sent after you so that Jock Benson would become mayor. Sweeney has gotten the council to support Benson and wants him to win." Sam added and Clem nodded, "We was paid $75 to off you, and another $75 upon completion. So, see, we had a really good reason. We wasn't burning nothing down."

Slim smiled, "Boys, I can see now that you're telling the truth. We'll write all that down then you'll sign it and so will I. I guarantee that you won't swing for arson. Lets mosey you on back down to the jail where you belong." So they did. After locking them up, Slim visited Marshall Owen and handed their signed confessions to the head shaking Marshall. He then collected his engagement ring, finding that Harris had substituted a lovely stone called a Star Sapphire for the sapphire they had originally agreed upon. The jeweler said that the star sapphire stood for the law as well as loyalty and so was more suitable than the simple blue stone. Then he rode for home. All in all, it had been an interesting morning.

 **Chapter 14**

"He's a lot of fun, and I never before realized just how handsome he is," Lilly gushed to the Woman in the Mirror.

"I didn't either Lilly," the Mirror Woman responded, "Are you sure about this? It seems sudden to me," she asked concerned. The two had patched things up and were back to plotting and comparing notes.

"It's very sudden, but oh so exciting! He's going to be the next mayor and I'm helping him." Lilly laughed, bouncing her breasts at the Mirror Woman, "Jock is completely smitten with me."

The Mirror Woman laughed as well, "Put those things away Lilly, you don't need to impress me with them." Grinning, Lilly buttoned up as the Mirror Woman went on. "Aren't you forgetting about Cyrus and Slim?" she asked.

Lilly made a rude noise, "Slim's boring. Let that boy Marcy keep him, and Cyrus is leaving town to sell his books. I don't want to be attached to a weakling of an itinerant book seller anyway."

The Mirror Woman shook her head, "That makes sense with Cyrus, but Slim is different. He is handsome, smart, and well liked; especially by the women around here. The 'Ladies of Laramie'…"

"Those biddies!" Lilly interjected contemptuously while belligerently crossing her arms.

"… are pushing him hard and Iwona Corey….

"That big boobed moose!" Lilly spat out venemously.

" …. has the Catholics lined up for him. It looks to me like he is going to be your next mayor. Not Jock. Sorry girl," the Mirror Woman finished with sympathetic firmness.

Lilly stopped, appalled by her friend's reasoning. She had assumed that her friend was going to make another argument for getting together with her ex-beau. "I better go help Jock. He needs all the help he can get," she announced as she tore out of her home.

"Hey traitor, your breakfast is ready!" Jock called up the stairs of the Benson house. Being a mayoral candidate meant that he had to be up early, and if he had to fix his breakfast, he had better fix Marcy's as well. They had a long standing arrangement; if one fixed them both breakfast the other had to fix them both dinner. Being a slugabed, Jock had fixed a lot of dinners.

"Don't poison me Jock. If you do, you'll have to run the store," Marcy shouted back.

"Not likely. Fresh trout, pan fried potatoes, and eggs. You know I wouldn't ruin trout with poison," Jock called back as he flipped the fish. The man was a good game cook who enjoyed sharing his catches.

It hadn't been hard for the siblings to come to terms as they had grown up spatting and making up. If Marcy was determined to marry his opponent, then so be it. If Jock was going to be irresponsible, that was nothing new. Life was back to normal for the Bensons.

Marcy came in with a smile, snuck up behind her brother, and gave him a big hug. "That smells wonderful. Are those today's eggs or should I hustle out and check the chickens while you finish up?" she asked.

"Go raid the chickens sis, you have about that much time before it's ready," he replied jovially while adding a touch of red pepper.

If a flash she was gone and returned with a dozen more eggs plus another bucket of water for washing up. Soon they were sitting down and eating. Halfway through breakfast there was a knock on the door, to which they both shouted "Come in!" Their reactions to the visitor diverged at that point. It was Lilly Spencer.

"Hi Lilly, join us for breakfast? It's fresh trout." Jock merrily called. Marcy just scowled, displeased at her rival's presence.

"Morning Jock, Marcy." The busty artist caroled, then bounced in, and surprised the siblings by giving Jock a resounding kiss. "Thanks no, on the fish. I'm not hungry," she radiantly explained.

Jock gave a pleased smile and straightened up proudly at the table. Marcy just stared. Lilly laughed at her, "Don't fall out of your chair Marcy. It was just a kiss," she laughed, shaking her head.

Marcy looked at her brother, at the painter, and back at her brother. She shrugged and gave up trying to make sense out of it. If Lilly Spencer wanted to chase after Jock, that was fine by her. It kept her away from Slim. As Lilly was the only other woman currently interested in 'her man,' this development went a long way to brightening Marcy's morning. If she had known about the Tigress it would have ruined her appetite.

Lilly and Jock talked politics while Marcy enjoyed her breakfast. When she finished eating, Marcy shooed the pair off announcing that she would clean up the dishes. As she washed, she pondered on what else she could do to further Jock's suit with her rival.

Slim was as good as his word in making it home in time to switch out horses for the afternoon stage. As the stage rolled out, Miss Daisy, Mike, and Jess rolled in on the buckboard.

Jess and Mike were in high spirits as Jess gave Mike a blow by blow description of his day of campaigning/brawling. On the other hand, Miss Daisy was less than impressed with the conversation.

Jess' buoyant spirits lessened upon seeing his cross armed, cold eyed partner leaning against the front rail of the porch. The Texan immediately told Mike to tend to the horse while he talked with Slim.

"Howdy Pard, "Jess called out, "welcome back. Any problems in Cheyenne?"

Slim replied sourly, "Nothing that knowing I was running for mayor wouldn't have helped with."

"Sorry, hard to find you out on the range. I see you got McCourt's message though." Jess replied firmly while walking up. "Let's go inside, and I'll tell you how it all happened. We knew you would be annoyed, but your running was needed."

Slim nodded and the pair went in. Daisy wanted nothing to do with this conversation. She went into the kitchen where she could hear their talk and intervene if things went south.

"You look a little beat up Jess. Been brawling?" Slim asked after they were inside.

"All a part of campaigning. Just working out a few political disagreements with opposition campaigners," the Texan grinned, touching a swollen lip and his cut nose. "I was reluctant to get involved, truth to tell, but it turns out that campaigning is fun. It involves a lot of arguing, some shouting, and the chance to bust some heads that really deserve it; all in the name of civic responsibility," he finished.

Jess went on to explain how Diddler's death resulted in the council running a puppet candidate- Jock. A puppet wouldn't really have been a change from Diddler but, with the railroad coming into town, things really needed cleaning up. It wasn't Jess and Daisy that put Slim forward, it was Snead and Marcy.

Slim was aghast. "Marcy? Why in the world did she put my name in? I take it she spoke for me then?" Slim questioned, getting riled at his would be fiancée. He thought, "If she is doing this now what is she going to be like if we marry?" Giving her an engagement ring was suddenly less appealing.

Jess nodded, "Yes, filed the paperwork and, I guess, paid the filing fee. She has been pretty enthusiastic about all of this; bad mouthing her brother as much as declaring your greatness. McCourt came out here and recruited us. Cyrus meant to talk you into all of this but you were gone. Bad timing that Pard. We were all pushed into this," Jess finished.

Slim was silent, scowling with concentration, then he said while shaking his head, "I've heard of candidates being drafted before but how did I get drafted? It's not like there was a convention."

Jess shrugged then walked to a chair and sat, "The 'Ladies of Laramie' picked you and have been working their tails off to get you elected. Mattie Bradford, I had no idea that she spoke Chinese, has been getting the celestials behind you. Iwona has the Catholics organized for you too." Jess paused, losing his smile, "Iwona's been working so hard that she went into labor today. It stopped though. Doc says she is ok, but Mort has ordered her to bed. I'm not sure how he's enforcing that since he's been awfully busy trying to keep the peace."

"Judging by your face, you haven't helped there," Slim said breaking a small smile. The cheery rancher really wasn't much good at maintaining a mad.

Jess grinned unabashedly, "Yeah, with you gone I've been speaking for you, being your partner and all. I haven't said anything you haven't said. I promise you that," he said, raising his hands up to ward off protests. "Between speaking for you, and Mattie organizing the Chinese, I've been pretty active with my fists. The council is really angry, especially Hornbeck and Sweeney, over the Chinese as they've always stayed out of politics."

Slim pulled another chair over, and sat down facing his partner. "That's not surprising with Hornbeck. He uses them like animals in his mine. If they organize he's in trouble. I've already heard about Sweeney. He tried to have me killed in Cheyenne," Slim said soberly.

Jess' smile disappeared and he froze in his chair, "Come again Pard?" he asked quietly.

"Do you know the Plunkett brothers?" Slim asked. Jess shook his head no. "They're a couple of local low lifes who drift around out here. They made a run at killing me up in Cheyenne. I got bailed out by a visiting Georgia belle, with a parasol. My was she a peach," he said with great emphasis. " Anyway, I winged one and captured both. Later they escaped when Redding got loose again…"

Jess interrupted while shaking his head and scowling, "Loose again? Next time I'm just shooting that man where it's final. "

Slim continued, ignoring the interruption, "….and I ran across the pair of them before they got out of town and stuck them back in jail. Anyway, the Plunketts and I got chatty and they told me that Mathias Hicks hired them for somebody else; they think Gus Sweeney but aren't positive. Those two aren't exactly deep thinkers. So I have a warrant for the arrest of your beer source"

Jess made an apathetic gesture saying, "Well so much for a year of free beer. Pard, let's go talk to Mathias tomorrow. I'm right curious to hear what he has to say about this. Do we include Mort or not?" Jess asked, knowing that if Mort was there it would restrict how they went about discussing things with Hicks.

Slim turned a sardonic eye upon his partner, "Yeah, we'll include Mort. Even if I cared to, I don't think a beating would get anything out of Hicks; but the threat of hanging might. I expect I'll pay Marcy a visit afterwards. You'll probably want to make yourself scarce for that," Slim finished.

Jess nodded quickly, "No kidding."

It was Thursday night, when a tired Mort Corey locked up the jail, and headed for home. It had been a busy day. Advocates for Slim had tangled with supporters of Benson and Linkous. Jess was involved in at least three different brawls when Mort finally sent him home, for the day, under parole to Miss Daisy. Mort's day had been further upset by Iwona going into false labor while she was stumping for Slim. If that hadn't been enough, Cheyenne had sent word to be on the lookout for Ruthless Redding who had escaped with the aid of an unidentified accomplice. The two men, armed and dangerous, were not expected to be traveling together. The telegram also said that Slim was on his way home, with a letter from Owen concerning the Laramie town council, so Friday promised to be equally lively. "Well," Mort thought, "tomorrow is another day."

Walking through the quiet night, the tired man heard a great deal of whooping and hollering from the Arcade Saloon. It meant nothing. Just Benson supporters; he had checked on them earlier, read the crowd, and felt safe in moving on. A minute later he came upon a silhouetted couple; Jock Benson and Lilly Spencer. Jock might or might not win the mayoral race but it looked like he had won a good looking girlfriend. Not that Lilly Spencer was the most stable girl in town. Mort judged her to be flighty but only troublesome to her boyfriends. He continued home where he could keep a watchful and worried eye upon his pregnant wife.

"Jock, will you help me?" Lilly asked, snuggling against the man whom she had recently allowed diverse groping liberties.

"'Course Lilly, what's the matter?" Jock asked concerned, but utterly distracted by her closeness.

"I want immortality Jock," she said simply, "and as mayor you can help me get it."

"What in tarnation are you talking about?" she had his full attention now.

She gave him a sad smile, "Jock, I'm dying. Doc says I have a brain tumor and it will eventually kill me. There is nothing to be done about it."

"No!" he said shaking his head.

"Yes, my dear," she said placing an index finger upon his lips, then continuing, "I am so sorry but it is so. We will have to just be happy with what time we have together. Like I said, I want immortality, and that I can have. An artist is immortal as long as her work is admired. I need your help to get my art out into the world, before I leave it," she explained.

"How can I help with that?" he asked, completely at sea.

"Mayor Diddler was going to use his connections to get me a showing in Cheyenne. When you are mayor I want you to do the same," she explained, snuggling up against him.

"Honey, I don't have any connections in Cheyenne and I won't when I am elected," he protested, dropping his chin on top of her head.

"Try for me, will you? Please try," she asked tearfully.

Jock shook his head, wrapped both arms around her and then shrugged, "I'll do my best. I'll ask the council for help, but I'm not sure what will come of it." Then he sighed, "I don't think I'll be mayor. Honey, face the facts. Slim is killing us."

Face hardening, Lilly said fiercely, "Tomorrow is another day my love. We shall see," and they spoke no more.

"Boys," Marvin Hornbeck said downcast, "Unless something unexpected happens, Slim Sherman is going to be our next mayor. Jock just doesn't have the appeal that Slim does, and the bunch pushing him is working like the very devil to get him in."

The three men who really ran the town council, Hornbeck, Kellerman, and Sweeney were in a back room of the Arcadia saloon, along with Mathias Hicks. The other men muttered their unhappy agreement.

"Look what he's already done with the Chinese," Hornbeck went on. "Next there will be some sort of legal inquiry into the Council."

Sweeney answered wryly, "A full audit is what I hear, with Snead as the auditor. We won't stand a chance of hiding anything from that old devil."

"Where did you hear that from, Gus?" Kellerman asked paling. He was the town treasurer.

"Cyrus McCourt told me. The salesman is right chummy with Snead," Sweeney lied, not wanting them to know he had a spy in Sally Vanderark.

Hicks interrupted quietly, "I have two deadly men waiting. I telegraphed for them an hour after I heard that Sherman was running. They will go out, he will disappear, and we will never see them, or Sherman, again. It will cost us $1200." Hicks said quietly.

"$1200?" Hornbeck gasped, goggling at the price, not the action.

"No haggling on this Marvin," Hicks said quietly while lowering his head towards the man and pointing a finger at him. "They charged me $200 just to come. Either we hire them or we don't but _we do not haggle with them_.They find haggling rude and you do not want to be rude to this pair. With them, rudeness can be terminal."

Gus Sweeney stood up, pulled out his wallet, and put $300 on the table, Kellerman followed suit. Hicks added $100 saying, "My other $200 is already paid." Hornbeck looked at the pile of money in the center of the table and sighed. Grimacing as if he was putting his own blood in the pile, he added another $300.

The meeting broke up as Hicks pocketed the money. He walked to the hotel where the two men awaited him. He went to their room, knocked, handed the cash to the small man who answered it, and left without saying a word. Everything had already been said.

Lilly left Jock and went home. Changing clothes, she talked to the Woman in the Mirror, "I can't let Slim win."

"You can't stop him Lilly. He has too much support," The woman answered softly.

"Not if he dies tomorrow morning," Lilly answered firmly, quietly, and unhappily.

"Lilly, Slim is too dangerous, and you're a terrible shot," the Mirror Woman admonished equally quietly.

"I have nothing to lose. Unknowingly, he is killing me, so Slim must die. That truly stinks because I really like Slim. He's just too boring to keep permanently," Lilly's lip trembled while she sternly belted up.

"Your kind of immortality comes at an awfully high price Lilly. I don't think it's much of a bargain," The Mirror Woman judged. She sighed and went on, "How are you going to do it?"

"I'm going out to his place tonight, and I will ambush him in the barn," Lilly answered.

"Isn't he in Cheyenne?" asked the Woman in the Mirror.

"No, the stage driver said he was back," the artist replied to her best, and only, friend.

"You'll never get away with it. Jess will see to that," the Mirror Woman said shaking her head. "You'll either wind up shot or at the end of a rope."

Lilly swallowed hard. "I'm not planning on escaping. Jock will win the election. He'll see that my art gets shown. That is all that matters," the sad artist replied.

The Mirror Woman looked at her dubiously and shook her head. "You have a lot more confidence in Jock than I do," she sighed then added, "Your father's pistol is in his wardrobe."

"Yes I do, and I know where the pistol is. Good bye," Lilly answered simply and silently packed up her paints, easel, and canvas. Then she left, shutting the bedroom door behind her.

"I'm so glad that I unloaded that filthy weapon," The Woman in the Mirror sighed to the empty room.

Lilly took her gear and went outside where a livery horse waited. She'd ask Jess to return it for her; if she got the chance. Then she rode through the dark of the night. The season was turning cold and the moon was hidden by clouds. "I hate this," she bleakly said to the darkness that somberly matched her mood. Arriving at the ranch, she avoided the house and rode to the back of the barn where she tethered her rented pinto. Keeping the barn between herself and the house, she lit a small lantern, unpacked her gear, and moved into the barn where she set up her easel. She wanted to spend her last night painting. The farm animals stirred quietly, disturbed by her light.

Art supplies neatly arranged, Lilly reluctantly retrieved her deceased father's cap and ball revolver. She hated the weapon as it was tied to memories of the bullying man getting drunk and waving it at her and her mother. Merely touching it made her skin crawl. Regretfully and distastefully picking it up, it occurred to her to check the cylinders. To her horror she found that it wasn't loaded. Having no reloads, she stared dumbly at the gun, finally saying out loud, "Well, I'm a bad shot anyway." She looked around the barn for an alternate murder weapon and spotted a hay fork. That would have to do.

Lilly's plan had been to paint all night and to be discovered in the barn, still painting. Slim would find it odd but not threatening. When Slim good naturedly asked why she was painting in his barn, she meant to take out the concealed pistol and then to shoot him. Now she would have to spring at him from ambush. She extinguished the lantern and hid behind some hay. It was going to be a long wait and she missed the comfort of her painting.

 **Chapter 15**

Morning dawned bright, clear, and a little cold. Miss Daisy had collected the day's eggs and was happily preparing breakfast for herself and the two men. Mike would not be eating this morning as he had just lost last night's dinner. Jess had left off cleaning his rifle and was helping the boy clean up the mess, before sending him back to bed. No doubt the boy would be fine tomorrow as Saturday was not a school day and children threw off illnesses as quickly as they caught them.

Slim quirked his lips good naturedly as he headed out to the barn, bucket in hand, to milk the cow. He was surprised to see 'Miss Piggy, ' their perpetually gravid 400 pound breeding sow, lying contentedly in the barn doorway. Piggy liked to get out but she never wandered far and would cheerfully wander back to her pen once he opened the door. Slim prodded her firmly with his boot toe. The sow good naturedly lumbered up, and walked through the door when he opened it, heading straight for her pen. The big rancher let out a laugh as the huge sow waddled along, a smile on her face in anticipation of being fed. Her off spring had been the 'guests of honor' at countless ranch meals but "Piggy" was a pet and would never be dined upon. He slid home the bolt on her pen door, securing her.

The big man turned and walked towards milk cow's stall in the back. "What the heck?" he thought, "Why is there an easel in my barn? It surely wasn't here last night," as Lilly's readied project came into view. Behind it he saw that the back door to the barn was part ways open. That explained how Miss Piggy had gotten out.

He called out, "Lilly, are you in here?" He had no idea why Lilly Spencer would be painting in his barn, but nobody else was odd enough to cart an easel around the country side in the middle of the night. Whatever Lilly's reason, Marcy would not be pleased.

He heard movement ahead and to his right. Lilly grimly stepped out from behind some hay holding his hay fork and looking like she had been crying. "Morning Lilly," he said moving forward, "What are you doing here?"

He was a scant two steps away from her when she whipped up the fork and lunged at him. Slim dodged away, knocking the four pronged weapon to the side with the milking bucket. "Lilly! You dumped me not the other way round! What's gotten into you?" he shouted, surprised. Unblocked, that lunge would have skewered his chest.

Lilly agilely recovered from her thrust and tried again; this time aiming for his throat. Once again Slim blocked with the dented bucket and moved to the side. Lilly pursued and thrust again but, when Slim blocked, she shoved the fork down and lifted it again before striking home.

"Yow!" Slim shouted as one of the tines scraped the side of his head cutting a shallow furrow. "That's enough, quit it Lilly!"

"You're killing me Slim," the artist panted, finally breaking her silence. "Jock has to be mayor." She lunged again, managing to stick the tines through the bottom of Slim's best milking bucket.

Slim twisted the milking bucket, turning the hay fork in Lilly's hands, and then grabbed the haft. "Lilly, you're not making any sense. I'm not killing you, you're trying to kill me," the big man replied as he wrestled away the fork.

Expecting Slim to try to clout her with the tool, Lilly bounded towards the back of the barn. Slim tossed his prize aside and followed her, "Lilly come back here. What in tarnation are you doing?" All this was a little surreal to the man as it was early in the morning, a noisily sick Mike had given him a poor night's sleep, and the idea of the town's beautiful artist trying to skewer him was ridiculous in the extreme. He would have been much quicker if he had actually felt threatened; say she had a gun.

That was when Lilly saw Slim's oversized mattock leaning against the wall. The blacksmith had specially made it for him so as to make better use of his size and strength. Dashing over to the heavy tool, the woman grabbed and hoisted it up over her head. Slim stopped in his tracks saying, "Lilly this is getting out of hand. Put that mattock down!" Then he stepped back.

Lilly awkwardly charged forward, mattock held high, and Slim bolted back the way he came. Blocking a hay fork was one thing. Blocking a hefted mattock was another. In a moment he was outside with a determined woman in hot pursuit.

"The well!" he thought. In a moment, he was off to the side of the barn and heading towards the well. He could play ring-around-the-Rosie with her all day without her getting a swipe at him. "Stop this right now Lilly Spencer. It isn't funny and I don't want to hurt you," he shouted as he ran. Not wanting to hurt her was why he hadn't yet slapped leather.

As he reached his goal, Lilly desperately launched her strike. The blow came up short and took a gouge out of the wooden structure. "Slim, what kind of a man runs from a woman?" she taunted him in a gasping voice. Dancer or not she wasn't used to running with heavy tools.

"A man being chased by a nut with a mattock." he replied, safely behind the well and moving away from whichever way she circled. "What has gotten into you? You haven't done anything to Marcy have you?" he asked with sudden concern.

Lilly shook her head, "No, Marcy is fine. If you like that 'boy' better than me that just tells about you. No, you can't be mayor Slim. I have to have Jock be mayor to be immortal." She darted one way and he circled the other. Slim easily matched her movements as he was both very athletic and not lugging a huge mattock. Stalemate.

"Hey pard, have a problem?" Jess' voice cheerfully called from the porch.

Without looking over the big rancher replied, "Yeah, Lilly came over to talk politics and has an extreme opinion. You know, I never thought running for mayor would be this dangerous."

"Yeah, between her and the Plunketts. Shoot, I wonder what will happen after you win? A Souix uprising?" Jess' tone changed, "Lilly, put that mattock down before I have to shoot you." Lilly looked over and saw that he had his Winchester leveled at her.

The artist dropped the tool and burst into tears; she had failed and wouldn't be immortal. The men closed in on her and she sobbingly threw herself upon Jess. He dropped the Winchester, which wasn't actually loaded. Jess had returned to cleaning it and absentmindedly brought it with him when he heard the commotion outside. He wrapped one arm around the girl while putting his gun hand upon his pistol butt, just to be careful.

Lilly wasn't faking her outburst. She really was distraught and not just trying to get his gun. Jess handed his hog leg to Slim, who had also picked up the discarded rifle, and the trio went into the house. They sat down to breakfast, where Lilly was not allowed a knife, and they all tried to get some sense out of the woman.

Milk, ham, eggs and coffee later they had Lilly's story. She only left out the part played by the Woman in the Mirror, figuring that there was no need to get her in trouble too. The men looked on in amazement at the tale. How she was dying from a tumor and sought immortality through her art. How Jock had agreed to help her, which surprised neither man, as Jock would help the devil himself if asked in a friendly manner. Finally, how everything was ruined with Slim becoming mayor.

Slim looked at his ex-girlfriend and shook his head, "Lilly, I'll be glad to help you and I won't need to win to do it, but only if you promise not to try to kill me again." He was touched and sad to hear that she was dying and ascribed her actions to the tumor; it really wasn't her fault.

"Truth to tell Slim, I like you and don't want to kill you," she said honestly.

Slim shook his head and raised an eyebrow, "Is that a promise? No more trying to kill me?" he didn't relent.

Jess looked at his partner, "That was a promise Slim. How are you going to help her?"

Slim shook his head, "No, that was an evasion. Promise Lilly?"

Lilly looked at him, "Why would you help me Slim? You already have a girl."

The question startled Slim, so he took a moment to just look at her and then he just shook his head, "Because I like you Lilly. We're friends; least wise I thought we were friends until you came after me with a hay fork," he answered.

"Mattock," Jess corrected.

Slim turned towards his partner, "Nope, she started with the hay fork and switched to the mattock when that didn't work out. You missed the first round," the rancher answered lightly.

The cowpoke bantered back, "I've got to work on being on time. I miss more stuff by being late." Both men were startled when the woman burst into tears again; tears that turned into hiccups.

"Slim, I'm so sorry. Really I am." Then she went speechless. She knew lots of people, and men pursued her constantly but, aside from the Woman in the Mirror, she hadn't had a friend since she was a little girl. Her 'oddness,' flights of fancy, and the brutality of her father had scared everyone off. Now she found that she had a friend and she had tried to kill him. Lilly felt lower dirt. "I don't have friends." She finally said.

Jess was the first to answer, "Sure you do. I'm your friend Lilly. I bet Jock Benson is too," he added.

"Jock likes my breasts, Jess," she returned, "not me."

Jess colored, deeply embarrassed, "Well I like your figure too, Lilly, and I like you. I bet Jock feels the same way."

"Well that makes it unanimous!" Slim announced. "All three of us like your figure, but we also like you."

Lilly laughed, then cried, but she eventually managed an answer, "Slim Sherman, you prefer a girl with almost no breasts. Marcy is darn near a boy."

Slim shook his head answering, "Breast size is like hair color; it's just there. Marcy is all girl, Lilly, and please quit calling her a boy. It really upsets her."

Lilly smiled through her tears and nodded, "Ok Slim. Can I come to your wedding?" she asked.

Slim stopped, startled by the change in topic, "If we have one, yes. Of course, you can't kill me between now and then," he said returning them to the original topic.

The half mad woman laughed, "Ok, I promise not to kill you. I don't kill my friends." Then she stopped remembering what he had said earlier. "Slim, you said you can help me without being mayor. How?"

Now it was Slim's turn to blush and Jess let out a whistle, "Eliza?" the Texan said, "Marcy'll have a conniption if she hears about it."

"Well, right now I'm not overly pleased with Marcy," Slim announced with a hard voice, "and Lilly needs this. One way or another Marcy and I will just have to deal with it," he finished sternly. "Lilly, I have a very wealthy and influential high society friend from Georgia. She is currently in Cheyenne. How soon can you get your art to Cheyenne?" he asked. "Eliza is leaving very soon."

"It's all packed up. I can leave as soon as they're loaded," the artist replied eagerly.

"Then let's all get to Laramie. I'll wire Eliza and see if she is willing to help. I'm betting that she will and that you will have shows in Atlanta and Savannah, but only if she thinks your art is good enough. Be warned, it will have to be good enough to satisfy her and she's no pushover," the blonde rancher admonished. "I won't be able to help you there. Eliza has her own opinions."

Lilly smiled and nodded, "Slim, thank you ever so much." She stood up and then launched herself at the seated rancher, wrapping her arms around him, and kissing him resoundingly. Shortly thereafter, the threesome was on their way to town, morning events forgiven if not forgotten. Lilly was deeply ashamed of herself and, before leaving, threw her father's pistol, as well as Slim's oversized mattock and haying fork, into the ranch cesspit. The rancher never did figure out where those tools got to. The woman also promised herself that she would buy the ranch a new milking bucket and decorate it with a nice oil landscape.

As they rode, Slim, Jess, and Lilly talked of the election and discussed how things had come about: the unreasonableness of Arena Linkous, the death of Diddler, and how both Jock and Slim had been tapped for candidacy. Lilly calmed Slim, a little, towards Marcy by telling him that the banker, had been the one to bring his and Mort Corey's names up. However, she was forced to admit that his girlfriend had been awfully diligent in the matter.

Riding on, Lilly called a halt on a small rise overlooking the road. "Guys, just a minute, I saw something I want to remember so I can paint it later," she said.

"Don't take long Lilly, we have business we really have to get done," Slim replied with Jess nodding.

The woman smiled, "Five minutes, no more. I promise," she said while she dismounted and pulled a spy glass from her saddle bag.

"What's that for Lilly? I thought you wanted to paint what you saw?" Jess asked, curiously watching her.

Lilly laughed, "I do but a closer look helps when you want to do the bigger picture later."

It didn't make any sense to either Slim or Jess, but they were willing to wait. True to her word, the woman was mounted again five minutes later.

They rode on until Jess spotted, far ahead, a pair of riders on white or light gray horses. Seeing them Jess felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He pulled up saying, "Hold up. Lilly let me borrow your glass."

With a look of interest she handed the glass to Jess who used it to quickly examine the distant riders. "Mother of God, no!" the Texan whispered, paling, then he handed Lilly her glass back.

"What's wrong Jess?" Slim asked, cocking a curious eye at the very distant horsemen.

"I'll tell you later Pard. Lilly, we need you to ride straight ahead to Laramie. We'll see you there. When you come up to those two, stop and delay them. Ask directions. Flirt. Whatever. If you can buy us five minutes that would be great. Be nice and polite, whatever you do, and don't be afraid. They won't hurt you. Can you do that for us?" Jess asked tensely.

Lilly saw Jess' apprehension and nodded seriously. If Jess was afraid then this was serious indeed; Jess Harper feared nothing.

"Jess…" Slim started saying while reaching for his Winchester.

"No Pard. I'll tell you after we reach town but we're circling around those two using Jaeger's draw." Jess turned on the road and headed back in the direction they had come with Slim following him.

As she watched them leave, Lilly silently blew kisses to their receding backs. They wanted five minutes, she promised herself to get them ten even if it meant doing a striptease on the Laramie road. The woman dismounted, tethered her horse, and set up her easel. Quickly she started roughing in the landscape, with a tornado added, and two horsemen on white horses approaching. She did it very roughly for she had little time, twenty minutes to be precise, but by the time the men approached she had a painting well under way with the greatest detailing going to the horses.

"Good morning, sirs" she gaily called to the men as they approached, while still focusing upon her work.

"Ma'am" the first said in a flat voice while reigning up. He was a small man, maybe 5'2," and palely complected with the deadest eyes she had ever seen in a living creature. Her skin crawled. "Ma'am" the second repeated equally flat voiced while tipping his hat and reigning up. He was a twin to the first with equally dead eyes. Both men were well dressed in identical black suits and sported silver chased firearms; pistols on their belts and rifles on their saddles. Their horses were a matched pair of rangy whites who eyed her indifferently.

Sitting absolutely motionless, the first rasped again, "Ma'am you shouldn't be out here, all alone in the wilds. Bad things can happen."

She replied with a coquettish smile despite never feeling less like flirting, "Why thank you for your concern, sir, but I paint the wilds and to do so I must go there. Come and see," she said gesturing to the work in progress.

The second man dismounted, losing his hat to a slight wind gust, revealing that he was bald. The first dismounted and retrieved the second's hat.

"Thank you Levi," the second said quietly to the first who nodded slightly.

The pair walked around and looked at the painting, "Jehosephat Levi, that's Jericho and Nineveh. Miss, you worked quickly to get our horses into your picture that fast. See here," he said pointing, "you can see the old scar on Ninny."

"Miss, that is looking to be a fine picture, "the motionless Levi croaked out, "why the tornado? There isn't one here."

"There was a few years back. Folks around here called it the 'death wind.' The theme of this picture is faces of death. Seeing you two I thought of the bible verse about 'Death riding a pale horse.' I hope you don't mind," she added.

Both men started, looked at each other then burst out laughing. It was a harsh noise as if their throats were little used to making the sound. "Ma'am, we don't mind at all. My name is Levi and my brother's name is Dan. As a matter of fact, we go by the handle of the 'Thanatos brothers' so you have a discerning eye." Something approaching good humor appeared in his dead eyes.

"You do? Well I am very pleased to meet you," she said giving them a curtsy. "I am Lilly Spencer and I live in Laramie."

"Pleased to meet you Miss Spencer," they flatly chorused. The pair returned to studying her painting and the threesome discussed lighting, color, and texture. The two men, highly intelligent though they were, knew nothing of these things but Lilly happily discussed each at length as she worked, occasionally making a mistake and fixing it. After twenty minutes, of watching and talking, the men mounted up to leave.

Lilly had one last gambit for delaying them, "Gentlemen can I get a little help from you?" she asked with cheery politeness.

"What Miss Spencer?" Dan asked curiously, dead eyes almost smiling.

"Please ride a few feet back down the road and stop, facing me. I'd like to rough the pair of you in to finish painting you later. It'll take maybe 10 minutes. I wouldn't dream of asking you to stop here long enough for me to do a proper final job."

Levi looked at his brother and they smiled at each other with a nod. Hardened professional gunmen that they were, they still had egos that could be tickled at odd moments. Truth to tell, this was one very odd moment. "How long would we have to sit for you to detail it correctly?" Dan asked.

"Oh, that would take an hour. Maybe two," she answered, heart stopping.

"We're in no rush miss, we'll stay for you," Levi answered. "We've done a lot of things, but we've never been painted before."

"Why thank you sirs! Thank you ever so much," she gushed while wishing the two would ride on. Though gentle of speech, well mannered, and terribly polite, these two scared the bejeebers out of her. They were the absolutely scariest men she had ever seen, heard, smelt, or dreamt of and she had already given her friends far more time than they had asked her for. She worked hard and fast, greatly aided by their uncanny immobility. The pair didn't seem to breathe and rarely blinked. Forty five minutes later, the Thanatos brothers were back on the road and twenty minutes afterward the shaken artist was gone too. Though whiskey was unbecoming for a lady, she promised herself a stiff drink when she got to town. On the positive side, the picture was becoming very interesting. The vague countryside, along with the more sharply defined tornado and riders, made for an interesting contrast. More significantly, she had somehow managed to translate her own fear into the work.

 **Chapter 16**

Jess pushed Traveler and Slim followed. It made talking impossible and before long they were in Laramie. "Pard, you go get Mort, I'll head over to the Arcade and make sure that Hicks is there."

Slim looked at his partner and asked, "Jess who were those two we passed?"

Jess looked at Slim grimly, "Old companions of mine. They go by the names of Dan and Levi Thanatos. Thanatos means 'death' in some language or another and those two are the most efficient killers to ever come out of Texas. If we go against them, alone, we die. It's as simple as that. So let's deal with Hicks and the council. Then we'll figure out what to do with the Thanatos brothers."

Slim was appalled, "And you sent Lilly to delay them?"

Jess shook his head and smiled grimly, "Lilly is fine. The Thanatos brothers are gentlemen. Not only do they only kill their marks, as far as I know they are always polite to women. Heck, when she's with them she's probably safer than when she is with us."

"You sound like they're old friends," Slim observed.

Jess shrugged, "We got on well enough but they have no more feelings than rattlesnakes. Now go get Mort while I check on our saloon owner friend."

Slim nodded and left for the jail. Jess hustled over to the saloon to deal with Hicks before Mort and Slim got there. They wouldn't approve of what needed to be done in order to save Slim's life. There wasn't a doubt in Jess' mind that the council had hired the two killers and that they were on their way out to the Sherman spread. They would find out from Daisy that he and Slim were in town, so dealing with Hicks must be done quickly. Jess paused outside of the bar. Grim faced, he adjusted and then re-settled his black leather gloves upon his hands. Then the Texan quickly strode through the double swinging doors of the saloon.

It was too early in the morning for the saloon to open. Mathias Hicks was taking inventory behind the bar while Charlie the drunk swept and emptied spittoons.

"Hicks, we have to talk. Your life depends upon it," Jess called out, striding towards the bar.

The saloon owner looked up from his work saying, "Jess, Good morning to you too. What has you so.." then he saw Jess' demeanor, turned, and grabbed the sawed off that was kept under the counter. He pulled the hammers back as he stood up, but Jess was a fast mover and was already directly across the bar from him. The grim Texan's right hand shot out, grabbed the gun, and yanked it out of Hick's hands. Then, like the return stroke of a piston, the shot gun butt stroked the bar owner in the solar plexus sending him careening back into the shelves of just inventoried whiskey. Three shelves collapsed, and the bottles on them shattered. Jess tossed the weapon aside as he placed a hand upon the bar and nimbly vaulted over. "Take a break Charlie, your boss and I have business," Jess growled to the worker. Charlie swallowed hard, grabbed a half empty whiskey bottle from a table, and departed. He wanted no part of the rampaging Harper and his infamous temper.

Seizing the gasping bar owner by his lapels, Jess hauled him to his feet. "Jess I didn't..." the man started as Jess grabbed him by an arm, and his hair, and then slammed his face into the counter top.

"You didn't what, Hicks? You didn't sic the Thanatos brothers on Slim?" he growled as he spun the man back around. Blood was streaming from Hick's nose and mouth. "Or do you mean you didn't try to have him killed by the Plunketts in Cheyenne?" The business man reached back and down under the counter, grabbing a whiskey bottle by its neck. Swiftly he raised it, but Jess back handed him hard across the bleeding mouth, sending a loose tooth to the floor, and knocked the raised bottle across the room. "Neither! I don't know anything about any of that," The man said bringing up both arms to protect his damaged face.

Jess took a deep breath; he had almost lost control and beat the man to death. Satisfying as that might be, and the urge to do so was still very strong, it wasn't what needed to be done. "Listen here you scum. I want a letter to Levi and Dan calling them off. "Hicks flinched at the names. Jess continued,"Yes I know them personally. If you do not give it to me I will have the satisfaction of beating you senseless, maybe to death. That will depend upon when Slim and Mort show up with a warrant from Cheyenne. It is for soliciting a murder and conspiracy for attempted murder. The Plunketts messed up and then ratted you out. The longer we take getting my letter the less time you will have to slither away from the noose you deserve."

"Don't know Plunketts…" Hicks started, stopping with a gasp when Jess spun him and slammed two blows to his kidneys. The tavern owner immediately vomited on the bar top.

"The letter Hicks!" Jess growled at the heaving business man who weakly nodded away from him.

"Paper, pen … office." The man gasped when he had wind enough to talk. Jess drug him there, and sat him on the wooden chair by the desk. The bar owner opened a drawer and tried to pull out a Colt. It was a bad move which cost him two more teeth, more damage to his nose, and resulted in Jess winding up with the pistol. Hicks gave in and picked up a pen. He wrote;

"Dan and Levi Thanatos:

There has been a change in plans and your services, regarding Sherman, are no longer desired. Thank you for coming and I am sorry that it just hasn't worked out. Most cordially, Mathias Hicks, esq."

Jess looked at it, "I think a PS is in order."

"What for?" the bleeding man asked, droplets of his blood splattering the letter.

"You tell me. If that letter fails I'll be back to finish this and not even a cell will protect you," Jess replied sinisterly.

Hicks gulped and nodded quickly. Then he continued writing, "PS- that also goes for eliminating any witnesses at the ranch and burning the evidence. A living Sherman makes such actions unnecessary. MH."

"Thank you," Jess said sardonically as he pocketed the letter. Then he hauled the man to his feet.

"You said I could run when I finished," Hicks whimpered.

"We're not finished. Not by a long shot," the Texan said as he spun the man around again, pulled a leather thong from his pocket and bound the man's wrists behind him. "We're going for a ride and you're going to answer my questions. If I think you are lying to me we will stop riding and start dancing again. Do you understand?" The Texan's voice was as hard and cold as the grave.

Hicks nodded, blood dripping from his ruined nose to his shirt and his eyes beginning to swell shut. Before leaving the office, Jess wrote a quick note and left it on the desk chair. Then they exited the saloon, reacquired Traveler, and then they went around back to where the saloon stabled animals. The Texan saddled up Hicks' horse, filled a canteen for the man, and they rode out of town with Jess leading.

As they rode, Jess asked a lot of questions concerning who paid for the Thanatos Brothers, how much, and why. He whistled at the price the Thanatos brothers commanded and added Kellerman, Hornbeck and Sweeney to his list for social calls. Hicks whimpered and moaned a lot as they went. Not only had Jess bruised his kidneys but one of the blows had cracked a rib and the solar plexus strike had left him with a strong urge to vomit. All in all, the saloon owner had experienced better mornings.

"Jess, I've answered your questions. Just let me go. You've got it all. I mean, I haven't actually hurt anybody and was only following orders," Hicks bemoaned.

"Well, you've answered my questions so that just leaves us with one last thing," the Texan replied tight faced.

Fear shot through Hicks. Harper was going to kill and bury him out here! Vainly he struggled against the thong. Hicks realized that he was a dead man and slumped in his saddle while dejectedly cursing his captor.

Jess paid him no mind. With the whole story, as Hicks told it, he was even over most of his mad at the businessman. Not all of it mind; punching him a few more times wouldn't break his heart but he no longer had any desire for true brutality.

Miles later Jess and his burden left the road. Stopping under an old oak that was quite suitable for a hanging, Hicks started wailing and openly crying. "Oh shut up. I'm not hanging you. I'm tying you up."

"You're lying. You're gonna hang me …" Hicks wailed and then he flinched and shut up as Jess raised his gloved hand.

"That's better. Now off of the horse." He helped Hicks sprawl off the horse, drug him over to the oak, and tied him sitting down against the tree's trunk. He tethered his prisoner's mount well out of reach and the horse went to quietly cropping grass. Taking the man's canteen he gave him a drink of water.

"Harper, what are you doing?" Hicks finally asked.

"Gagging you. Open your mouth." A moment later the man was gagged. "To answer your question, we're one ridge away from the Sherman ranch house. I'm going to go talk to your employees. If your letter gets me killed you will have every chance of starving to death right here. Do you have anything to change in it?" Hicks shook his head and Jess left him, leading away the man's horse. If it all went south, he was killed and Hicks starved, there was no need for the animal to suffer.

Lilly missed Jess in Laramie, coming in on a trail which short cut the road. She dropped the pinto off at the livery while optimistically arranging for a wagon. Then she went straight to the Benson's general store. Lilly wanted three things there; a bottle of whiskey for her drink, to warn Marcy of Slim's impending rampage, and to talk to Jock. All morning she had talked to Jess and Slim about friendship and what she was told was new and wonderful to her. She needed to talk to Jock; a third potential friend that she wanted for company on the hoped for trip to Cheyenne.

Entering the store, she found Marcy there. "Hi Marcy, is Jock here?" she caroled.

Marcy looked up at her appraisingly, "No, he went off looking for you."

Lilly nodded, that made sense. "Ok, first I need a small bottle of whiskey. Good whiskey and I have no idea what is good or bad. I owe myself a drink," she said shuddering.

"And why is that?" Marcy asked with polite curiosity, while Lilly's father had bought much whiskey, Lilly never had.

"I just delayed the Angel of Death, actually two of them, for Slim and Jess. I'm shaking so bad that I can't even hold my paint brush," she answered. It was true. Once the Thanatos brothers rode away she had only pretended to paint as the shakes had set in with the relief of their departure.

Upon hearing that she had been with Slim, Marcy selected a small bottle of the most horrendous rot gut whiskey she had on hand. "This should do," she said, then added "we sell a lot of it."

Lilly made her purchase, opened the bottle and took a drink. She immediately gagged on the vile liquid and wound up coughing it up in the shop. "Gah! How can men drink that?" she said putting the bottle down with no intention of ever picking it up again. Marcy suppressed a snicker and got out some cleaning rags to mop up the mess. To the store owner's surprise, and secret embarrassment, Lilly pitched in and apologized for making the mess.

"So much for my drink," She said. Then turning to the shopkeeper she announced, "Marcy, prepare yourself for trouble. As I said, Slim is back. He's fit to be tied and he's heading your way."

Marcy answered carefully, not sure what to make of a warning from her rival, "Why I'm tickled that Slim is back though I'm not sure why he'd be angry at me…."

Lilly put her hands on her hips and looked fiercely at the smaller woman, "Don't play the fool with me Marcy Benson. You know darned well why Slim is breathing fire! You volunteered him for Mayor and have worked your tail off to make him such without asking him if he wanted to be. He's now going to pay you a visit and it won't be a quiet one. You've got a little time because he has a few men to see, and to put into jail, before he 'deals with you.' His words not mine."

Marcy paled but answered "Actually, I didn't volunteer him. Snead did, I, uh, just helped," she said lamely.

Lilly crossed her arms and looked down upon her. "That's not what Slim heard and he's riled something fierce," Lilly said. "Where's Jock? We need him to run the store while you get ready for Slim's onslaught."

"Onslaught? Get ready for Slim? What do you mean? I told you that I don't know where Jock is," Marcy replied, becoming unnerved by Lilly's imperious demeanor and aggressive descriptions.

The artist/dancer threw her arms up theatrically and did a pirouette while declaiming, "Bath! Hair! Perfume! Ribbons since flowers aren't available! We're going to get you up like you're going to a big doo. Slim Sherman is not the sort of man who can hold a mad at a contrite woman making big eyes at him. If nothing else, it will make him laugh and if you can make that man laugh this battle is won. Without a doubt Slim Sherman is the nicest and most forgiving man in Laramie. I should know, I tried to kill him this morning and we're best friends again," she finished.

Marcy stopped cold, staring fiercely, "You what?"

"Oh don't worry, we have other problems. Rage at me later. I'm going to drag Jock back here by his, uh, ear and then you are going to prepare yourself." With that the artist blew out of the store, like the tornado in her latest painting, leaving Marcy to just stare after her.

Lilly marched herself up the street, "Where would I be if I were Jock? Fishing? No, my house to mope." she thought, and kicked her pace into double time. Soon she encountered Slim and Mort on their way to the Arcade saloon.

Slim smiled when she approached and stepped in front of her, bringing her to a stop. "Are you alright?" he asked

"Never better, why ever not?" she replied absently.

"Why? I take it those two were no trouble," the relieved rancher asked.

"Those two were the scariest things I have ever seen," she replied, "but I'm ok."

"I'm glad to hear it. Jess has been acting oddly since we saw them. Tell me about them, will you?" the rancher requested.

So Lilly spent ten minutes describing her encounter with the Thanatos Brothers. Slim became incredulously quiet as she described painting for them. Eventually her narrative came to a close. Then she turned and asked the sheriff, "Mort, have you seen Jock lately?"

"I saw him earlier, moping over by your house," he replied, eyes twinkling. She nodded in response and scurried away. She reappeared, scant minutes later, towing Jock by his ear.

"Who do you think you are, my sister?" he protested as she drug him along. She hadn't even kissed him. She'd just grabbed and drug.

Lilly released his ear, stood in front of him with shoulders thrown back, chin and chest proudly upraised. "Do _I look_ like your sister?" She replied proudly.

"Uh, no…." he replied slowly, sensing that there was a trap in the question.

She nodded, re-grabbed his ear and returned to dragging him, "Good, I'm glad that's settled."

Mort and Slim walked into the Arcade as Charlie was cleaning up the mess Jess had left. The work was not going quickly as Charlie had polished off the half bottle of whiskey before anybody could take it from him.

"Looks like Jess and Hicks had a right lively discussion," Mort said looking around and heading over to the bar. "What happened here, Charlie?"

"Mr. Hicks pulled a shotgun on Harper. Harper took it away from him and then hit him with it. Harper was awful mad and told me to take a break. So I did," the swaying drunk slurred.

"Charlie, I never credited you with sense before, but I do now," Mort commented noting the tooth on the floor, and the blood and vomit on the counter. "Slim, how worked up was Jess when you sicced him on Hicks?"

Slim shook his head, "I didn't sic Jess on anybody, and not very. He was very grim about the two shootists Lilly delayed. That was all."

"Well Traveler is gone, and I bet we find Hick's mount gone too. If we don't meet up with Hicks again, I'll have to go hard on Jess," Mort said glumly. Slim just nodded.

The pair walked around the saloon, finding two teeth and a smaller mess in Hicks' office along with a bloody pen, "He made Hicks write something," Slim observed, showing the pen to Mort.

"What?" Mort asked curiously.

"I don't know. Let's go talk to Sweeney, maybe they went there. Or maybe Jess went there with a note from Hicks." Slim suggested.

Mort shrugged, "I'm in no hurry. I figure Jess is the next one we need to talk to." The sheriff then stopped, seeing a piece of paper laying on the floor. It was the note Jess had left on the chair. He picked it up and read it. Then he handed it to Slim.

The rancher took the note. It read, "Slim and Mort: Hicks admitted that he hired the Thanatos brothers to kill Slim and is going out with me to call them off. We'll both see you back at the jail this afternoon. Wait for me as I want to help you with the council. Jess."

Mort shrugged, "Like I said, the next person I have to talk to is Jess. At least it looks like I won't have to jail him for killing Hicks. Let's wait for him."

Slim shook his head. "I'm heading out after them."

Mort paused, looking suddenly glum. "I'm joining you. Dang I hope Iwona doesn't go into labor while we're out," the nervous father to be grimaced.

Jess rode a tired Traveler, leading Hick's mount, over the ridge and down towards the ranch house. Nothing stirred in the yard save chickens. With Mike sick that was to be expected. Still, Jess knew that danger was there as surely as he knew the Thanatos brothers.

Not that 'Thanatos' was their birth name. They had come into the world as Dan and Levi Veytz. They took the other name after the destruction of the commanchero brigands based in Thanatos Springs, Colorado. Jess, the Veytz brothers, and nine others had been paid to track down, and eliminate, those marauders.

Their employer got the group ambushed and half wiped out. Only the insanely fast and accurate gun skills of the Veytz boys had preserved the rest. The surviving gunmen had pressed on and conquered the Commanchero base. After the smoke had cleared, only Jess and the Veytz's were standing. Afterwards, the Texan had said good bye to the lethal pair and hadn't seen them again until today.

Jess tethered Traveler to the corral and called out loudly, "Levi, Dan! I know you're here and have me covered. I am disarming, watch." The Texan knew that staying armed was a temptation to disaster. Though he knew himself to be a first rate gun hand, Jess also knew that his skills were no match for of either of the pair lurking nearby. Jess unbelted and put his gun and belt into a saddle bag. Then he stepped away from his mount and pulled off his shirt to show that he wasn't packing a back up gun. Putting his shirt back on, he waited. It wasn't a long wait.

A small man in black drifted out the house carrying his customized Winchester loosely in one hand. "Howdy Harper, it's been a while," he croaked out.

"Howdy Dan. I see you're well. How's Levi?" Jess asked, well knowing that politeness was critical with the Thanatos boys.

"Nope I'm Levi," the man croaked out, with all of the calmness of the grave.

Jess shook his head, this was a game they liked to play, particularly with him. Most people couldn't tell them apart (they claimed they couldn't tell themselves apart in mirrors) but he never had a problem. "Nope, you're Dan." He then went on to the current agenda, "I assume you're here on business."

Dan Thanatos gravely smiled his dead smile that didn't reach his equally dead eyes. He nodded his head, "Right on both counts Jess. Want to talk inside?"

"Your call," Jess replied shrugging, "I assume that Mike and Miss Daisy are alright."

Dan nodded, "Of course. Harming them isn't currently our business."

Jess nodded, "So are you after Slim, me, or both?"

Dan nodded, "If 'Slim' is Sherman, we have business with him. We didn't know that you were involved. How did you know that we were around?" the dead eyed man asked with morbid curiosity.

"Your employer made a run on Slim earlier, so I was looking for trouble. Sure enough, you two showed up. Trouble with a capital T," Jess answered. "I saw you on the trail earlier, so we went around you into Laramie and I had a word with Hicks. I knew that Slim was safe because he wasn't anywhere near here."

A mournful call sounded from the barn and Dan relaxed slightly. Jess hadn't been aware of the man's tension until it had passed. "So you are alone, good." Dan's twin came out of the barn. "Hello Harper," he croaked out with cold cordiality.

Jess turned to the second man and made a half wave, "Howdy Levi. Actually I'm not alone but the man with me is tied to a tree, some ways from here, just in case you boys want to talk to him."

The black dressed twins glanced at each other with grave smiles, then Levi spoke, "Your word is good with us Jess, though we would like to know what Sherman is to you. We three might wish to discuss alternatives," he said, with a chilling emphasis on the last word.

Jess shivered but kept it out of his voice and features, "Well, read a note I have first. It's in my shirt pocket and I don't want to be shot six times while I pull it out."

Both men smiled coldly and nodded, "You give us too much credit. I doubt we'd hit you more than four times before we discovered your tragic mistake." That was the limit of their sense of humor. Not greatly reassured, Jess pulled the note out slowly and handed it to Levi.

Levi snickered gratingly when he read it. Then he handed it to his brother. "The pen is mightier than the sword. You knew you couldn't out gun us so you got Hicks to call us off. It was a nice touch, having the man sign it in his own blood," Dan said, alluding to the dried droplets on the paper.

Jess nodded, "That about sums it up."

Dan finished reading it and pursed his lips, "Hicks is the man who's tied to the tree?"

Jess nodded, "Yeah, I brought him in case you wanted to make sure I didn't write that."

"Which you would do if you thought you could get away with it," Dan replied without rancor.

"Actually, beating it out of him was far more satisfying. Still, I expect to turn him over to the law after we're done," Jess said matter-of-factly. He had long ago decided that dealing with this emotionless pair straightly was the best policy.

"Then we'd best be heading out. Jess, you win. Our prepaid contract is cancelled and bodyguarding that weasel wasn't part of it," Levi said with Dan nodding his agreement and pocketing the note. "Just bringing Hicks out shows you're being straight with us. What is Sherman to you? You know how dangerous we are," the dead souled man re-asked the question as another might discuss the weather.

"He's my partner and has become, more or less, my brother. How much risk would either of you run for the other?" Jess asked proudly.

"To the limit. Against Man, God or Devil, it wouldn't matter," they answered together, sounding like an infernal chorus and sending more chills down Jess' spine.

To Jess' surprise, Dan Thanatos then made him an offer. "Jess, join us. We've talked over getting a protégé to eventually take over what we do, and we've never worked with anyone we liked better than you." Levi added, "You nearly have the speed and accuracy, already. With some coaching, and a few life changes, you could become our peer. "As an afterthought Dan concluded, "We also make very good money."

Jess stood taken aback in wide eyed surprise. None were better at what this pair did and he felt deeply and strangely honored by the offer. Then the cold chill of someone stepping on his grave ran through him. "No thanks boys, I have family here. But please share a drink with me before you go. I can't say why, but I am honestly glad to see you," he replied while mentally adding, "in a scared spit less sort of way." The shaken Texan then led them into the ranch house, took out the medical whiskey, and poured three large glasses. A terrified Miss Daisy looked on in silence.

"The lady doesn't like us much," Dan observed emotionlessly.

"No reason for her to," Levi answered, getting a nod from his brother.

"She reads people well," Jess said matter-of-factly, "and sees just how black and blood stained you are. You know you're not easy company."

That drew harsh laughs from the pair. By their grim standards, it had been a positively humor filled day, "We try not to be. Nobody messes with the Angel of Death and we're two images of him."

The three gunmen silently toasted each other and the two visitors made to leave when Levi suddenly stopped, "Jess, would you like us to take Hicks away? It might simplify your life and we wouldn't find it any bother."

Jess smiled cold cordiality, "Thanks, but no Levi. I need him. I appreciate the offer though."

"Would you mind doing us a favor?" the other shootist asked.

"What is it?" Jess asked curiously. These two never asked anything of anybody. They either took what they wanted or did it themselves. They truly valued their independence.

"A young artist lives in Laramie. She is painting a picture she calls 'The faces of death.' We wish to buy it when she finishes it and are willing to pay up to $400. Will you handle that for us? We aren't too keen on hanging around, maybe for months, while she fiddles with it," the reaperish Levi asked.

Jess smiled, nodded, and answered, "Sure Levi, Lilly is a friend and will be greatly pleased."

The twins nodded, Levi gave Jess some contact information, and then they went to their horses and silently saddled up. With a wave, but no words, the _sepulchral duo rode off to the east._

After their visitors left, Daisy cornered Jess into explaining just who had visited and why they had been there. It took a few minutes, and a shot of whiskey, to calm her down. Jess then looked in on Mike before leaving. The boy had slept through the chilling visitation. This reminded Jess of a sermon about the children of Israel sleeping safely behind blood marked doors while the Angel of Death passed them by. He didn't much like that sermon.

Saddling another horse, Jess rode out and collected his tree hugger. Hicks was relieved by Jess' return but not happy about returning to Laramie. Jess cut him short saying, "It is that or you're going off with my old companions. They made the offer and they don't much like you." That silenced the barman for the entire ride back. The silence suited Jess as he had a puzzle to sort out. Why had he enjoyed seeing those scary devils, once he knew that things were going to be non-terminal? And why did a part of him find their job offer attractive? He eventually decided that part of himself was still the wild drifter and forever would be. That was fine. It made harrowing memories sweeter, as time smoothed out their edges, without ruining whatever sort of man he was turning into. It was a pleasure when he was joined by Slim and Mort on the way back to town

Mort had a few things to say after Jess explained why he had abducted Hicks. The sheriff was annoyed, but allowed that peaceably calling off those two hell hounds was probably the best for everybody. He also added that, since Hicks pulled the shotgun first, dancing him around his own bar was justified…. but not to make a habit of such things.

Jess was surprised at the mildness of Mort's tongue lashing. He figured that his friend had heard a little about the Thanatos Brothers and was glad to have them out of his jurisdiction. Heck, if Mort knew them as well as Jess did, their departure would have had him doing cartwheels back to town.

After Mort's mild tongue lashing, the trio rode companionably back to Laramie. Well, companionably for Jess who simply ignored the fuss his partner made at him for going after the Thanatos brothers alone. Slim simply didn't understand the situation with those boys and, as far as Jess was concerned, his ignorance was bliss.

Arriving back at the jail, the three men happily chucked Hicks into a cell. They then walked over to the Sweeney house and knocked upon the door. Mrs. Sweeney smilingly answered it, "Good afternoon sheriff. Come in, please come in."

Mort nodded, taking off his hat with Slim and Jess following suit. "Magda, we're here to talk to Gus. Is he around?" the Laramie sheriff asked while Slim, looking at the friendly and attractive woman, thought of a quote from an old story, "Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it." He surreptitiously loosened the gun in his holster.

"Why, whatever for sheriff?" she asked innocently.

"It concerns Mathias Hicks. I just arrested him on a warrant from Cheyenne for conspiracy to commit murder. I need to ask Gus what he's heard, if anything," Mort answered.

Magda's eyes flattened and she snapped, "Gus knows nothing about such things and hasn't been to Cheyenne in months. He has no enemies there so this has nothing to do with him. Whatever Mr. Hicks did is not of our concern."

Gus Sweeney came stomping down the stairs with a challenging and unfriendly look, "Come here for a reason sheriff or just to upset my wife?" the Councilman demanded.

"We came here to arrest you for murder for hire, Gus. Hicks ratted you out like the Plunketts ratted him out. Come along. You know what will happen if you try to draw that hogleg you conceal above your fat butt," Mort continued in a reasonable voice but with an iron look to his eyes and a hand upon his Colt.

Sweeney's hands quit inching towards his concealed gun and he heaved a sigh of defeat. Magda, seeing Slim closely eying her with a hovering gun hand, made no move towards the pepperbox she had concealed upon herself. Given half a chance she would have drawn and fired it. But she didn't have that half of a chance. She loved her husband but wasn't uselessly committing suicide for him. Minutes later the Councilman dejectedly sat alone in his cell.

Within the hour he was joined by Kellerman and Hornbeck. Half an hour later the Councilmen were falling all over each other to rat out their cronies while Hicks was noisily ill in the corner; Jess had done some damage to him that would be a few days sorting itself out.

Hicks was also disgusted with his jail mates as Mort had been less than truthful when he had told them that the bar owner had turned them in. He had done no such thing, but once they turned on him, he rectified that omission. Judge Klink was going to be very busy the next time he came to town.

Law work settled, Slim turned to sorting things out with Marcy Benson. As he walked to the store, Mattie Bradford hailed him, "Slim! I've a reply to your telegram!" and brought it over to him.

"Thanks Mattie," he said taking the paper and putting it in his pocket, unread.

"Best read it as it ends 'awaiting response,'" the telegrapher cautioned.

With a nod and a sigh he retrieved and read the message. "If you accompany art will delay through Monday then absolutely must leave Stop Else leaving as scheduled Stop Get moving cowboy Stop Eliza.

Slim laughed, which caused most of his aggravation with Marcy to abate. He simply wasn't a man that remained angry at people he liked. Eliza Bronson's unabashed blackmail both flattered him and struck his funny bone. "I had better keep things moving," he thought.

Turning to Mattie, who had pencil and paper at the ready, he dictated, "To Eliza Bronson, Governor's Mansion, Cheyenne Stop Will accompany art and artist Stop Looking forward to seeing you Sunday Stop Expect to have Marcy in tow to size ring and to keep self safe from Tigers Stop Slim." "That will fix her!" he thought and his response also settled his mind about Marcy. She was in for a bit of a roasting, as what she had done wasn't right, but she hadn't done anything more serious than to complicate his life a little.

Mattie read it back to him and immediately started back to the office. She couldn't talk to anybody about it, as respecting privacy came with the job, but how she dearly loved knowing everybody else's business.

Slim continued on to the store where he found Jock and Lilly, but not Marcy. "Hi Jock, Lilly" he greeted them.

"Hi Slim, is there news?" Jock asked, while Lilly clasped her hands and smiled tightly with nervous expectation.

Slim nodded, smiling at her, and her smile turned into a grin. "I'm looking for your sister and I have a telegram to show Lilly," he said walking across the store and handing Lilly the paper. The woman read it, bounced up and down twice, leapt at Slim and hugged him. She refrained from kissing him only because Jock was there. Then she shot out of the building, hell bent for the livery stable.

Jock looked on with a smile. "I take it we're headed to Cheyenne today."

"We? I take it Lilly and you have been talking about taking her art over there," Slim asked.

"Yeah, are you going too? Lilly thought there was a good chance that you would be coming," Jock answered.

Slim nodded, very glad that Jock was coming. A road trip with Lilly, without another male present, would cause rumors he didn't feel like putting up with. Marcy coming along would cause plenty of rumors too, but he already intended to 'make an honest woman of her' so that wouldn't be a problem.

"You know, it's funny. One of us will become mayor tomorrow, Arena hasn't a prayer, and not only will neither of us be here but we'll be out of town together. Heck, bring a fishing pole and we can fish on the way. That way we can say that we all went fishing. It'll make a better story," Jock laughed.

Slim agreed and laughed as well. Then he changed the subject, "Where's Marcy, Jock?" he asked.

"At home awaiting her doom," Jock said, shaking his head. "She figures that there'll be the devil to pay for getting you into the election."

Slim shook his head, "So she's hiding under the bed? That doesn't sound like Marcy to me."

Jock grinned, "Shoot no. Digging a moat and boiling some oil."

Slim shook his head and departed the store. It only took a moment to reach the Benson house and he knocked upon the door. Then he stepped to the side so that anyone answering the door would have to step out if they wanted to see who was there.

The door opened, slowly, "Yes? He heard Marcy timorously ask, then "Who's…." as she took a half step out. Slim was upon her immediately and scooped her up. He gave the startled woman a mock growl and very hearty kiss which, after the briefest of pauses, was heartily returned to the accompaniment of tears.

"Hey, what's this?" Slim asked breaking his side of the embrace; she still clung to him. Only then did he notice the fancy peach dress, Lemon Verbena perfume, hair ribbons, and expertly done hair. "How did all that happen?" he thought, "Marcy must have had an accomplice, she hates mucking with her hair."

When Marcy finally spoke she had hiccups from crying, "I'm so sorry, Slim. hic I had to help volunteer you. If hic I hadn't Jock would be mayor and hic we'd never see each other because hic I would always be stuck in the store. Then you weren't around and we just had to do everything hic and I know you're mad but I hic ….." Slim stopped the outpouring with another kiss. A kiss periodically interrupted by hiccups.

"Enough," he said firmly after breaking the kiss, anger virtually forgotten. "Don't volunteer me for stuff without my permission, I find it really annoying and I might not do it. Ok?"

She nodded and grasped him again. "I really am sorry Slim, I really am. Lilly told me how hic angry you are and I've thought about it all day and all…." Actually, Lilly had artistically embellished and grossly exaggerated Slim's rage and had included fanciful and lurid descriptions of the two pairs of killers sent after him. The result had left Marcy twitching with apprehension, guilt, and contrition. The artist had decided that such a state would best appeal to the rancher's sympathetic nature; he was such a big hearted and forgiving soul.

"Ah," Slim thought, "Lilly was in on this, which explains hair, clothes, and such. Jock was right about defenses. Very feminine defenses and most effective ones," he thought ruefully.

"…and, if you don't want to be mayor that's alright. We'll figure something out hic." Her hiccups were abating slowly."

Slim pursed his lips and looked at her sternly, which in her guilt ridden state made her feel awfully uncomfortable, "I do have one thing to ask you."

She looked up at him with huge deer-in-the-porch-lights eyes, thinking "look forlorn, Lilly said to look forlorn. I don't know how to look forlorn," the angst of which, of course, made her look very prettily forlorn. She knew he would be asking why she had done what she had done when she could have easily sent him a telegram and gotten his permission. Truth to tell, that option hadn't occurred to her, but her saying that would sound lame. Oh, he was going to be angry after all or just hold her in contempt which would be so much worse….

Slim pulled his oversized hand out of his pocket, looked her dead in the eyes, dropped to his left knee and quietly asked, "Marcy Benson, will you be my wife?" Then he opened the hand and showed her a ring. It had a blue Star Sapphire on the top edge, a boulder opal on the bottom edge with malachite at the other two compass points. Centered was a diamond solitaire. She immediately read MS, MB eternally; Mathew Sherman and Marsalene Benson together forever.

Manfully, she fought off the vapors, but alas, she couldn't speak. With a rictus grin, she settled for madly shaking her head up and down and then flinging herself upon him. He found that answer quite sufficient.

Lilly grinned all the way to the livery and all the way back to her house where, after barely remembering to tie off the horses, she charged into the home and madly loaded her 48 prepared paintings. Then she grabbed her work in progress, 'Faces of Death,' so that she could continue painting in Cheyenne. Next would have to come the necessities for the trip, and she suddenly realized that she was at a total loss as to what to bring. She had moved to Laramie at the age of four, and had never travelled anywhere since. The prospect of leaving safe, familiar, and known Laramie was suddenly very daunting. Out there was anything and everything. Provincial Laramie now seemed very dear indeed. Above all, for the first time, she had friends. Three friends, to be exact. Maybe four though she was unsure of Marcy. Pondering the mystery of travel needs, Lilly was startled to notice that her headache was gone. It had been her constant, unwelcome, companion for the last seven years. Now it was gone, and somehow she knew it would never return. Good riddance. Taking a deep breath she decided that waiting for Jock was her best option. He could help her make a list of, and load, the necessities. She didn't doubt that he would be over directly.

Happy with the plan, she went upstairs to tell the Woman in the Mirror what had transpired. What a day it had been! She looked into her Dalyngridge mirror and the Mirror Woman smiled back, but oh how worn and tired she looked. "What's wrong?" she cried out, "you look unwell and you're never ill."

"I am very tired, Lilly. I've been busy. I see you have chosen to go forth with your art. I wasn't sure that you would in the end. I still think you should have chosen Slim over Jock. He reminds me of Gareth only handsomer and smarter," the Mirror Woman said, ever the matchmaker, and Slim Sherman, ever her favorite.

"No, Slim is too predictable and that makes him boring. Still, I'm not sure about Jock," Lilly answered defensively, then added, "I'll be back soon enough," and immediately doubted herself. "Would she?" she thought.

"No dear, I think not, but even if you are we shall not meet again. I must rest now. I have done much work this day and must sleep and sleep. Mayhap I will wake again for your grand or great granddaughter. Care well for the mirror, child. And go with my love and blessing." The Mirror Woman faded from view while Lilly softly said, "Good bye," then cried a storm of tears.

The Sidhe looked through the mirror, invisibly, one last time before going to her rest. Manifesting in the mirror was easy enough but exiting through it was exhausting. Indeed, it had been nearly 400 years since she had last done so. Since this was the second time she had moved through it, this year, she was brutally exhausted. Still, her god daughter, as amoral and charming as the sidhe herself, had needed her aid. Now the tumor was dead and the girl would have a life. How tiring such curing was. Much more tiring than when she had last emerged and elfshot Lilly's brute of a father.

The sidhe looked her last upon this most favored god daughter. She was the faerie godmother to all of the Dalyngridge women but only a very few could, or would, see her. The sidhe sighed wearily as she went to her rest and remembered the human women she had had in her charge. She let out a most ungracious snort, "Imagine taking Jock Benson over Slim Sherman. Oh what fools these mortals be," she thought tenderly as she drifted off for a very long sleep.


End file.
